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WILEY & PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY OF 

CHOICE READING 

POEMS: 

BY THOMAS HOOD. 



LATELY PUBLISHED, 
PROSE AND VERSE, 

BY 

THOMAS HOOD. 

Forming Nos. XVL XIX. Wiley & Putnam's Library of Choice Read- 
ing, 2 vols., 16mo , 75 cts., — or one volume, bound in red cloth, $1.00. 

Contents.— Preface to Hood's Own, 1839. The Pugsley Papers. The 
Dream of Eugene Aram. Black, White and Brown. I Remember, I Re- 
member. The Portrait ; being an Apology for not making an attempt on 
my own life. Literary Reminiscences. The Lost Heir. An Undertaker. 
Miss Killmansegg and her Precious Leg. Fair Ines. Ballad. Ruth. Au- 
tumn. Song. Ode to Melancholy. The Great Conflagration. A Tale of 
a Trumpet. Boz in America. Copyright and Copywrong. Prospectus to 
Hood's Magazine. The Haunted House. Life in the Sick Room. An 
Autograph. Domestic Mesmerism. The Elm Tree. Lay of the Laborer. 
The Bridge of Sighs. The Lady's Dream. Song of the Shirt. 



POEMS: 



BY THOMAS HOOD 

' u 



NEWYORK: 
WILEY AND PUTNAM 

1846. 



I 



Oilk. 
W. L. Shoemakor 
f t IK 



PRE^FACE 



This collection of Mr. Hood's serious Poems is made in 
fulfilment of his own desire. It was among his last instruc- 
tions to those who were dearest to him. 

If its reception should justify the earnest hope which the 
writer had allowed himself to entertain, it will be followed 
by a volume composed of the more thoughtful pieces in 
his Poems of wit and humor. 

It is believed that the most sacred duty which his friends 
owed to his memory will thus have been discharged ; and 
that in any future recital of the names of writers who have 
contributed to the stock of genuine English poetry, Thomas 
Hood will find honorable mention. 

Some minor pieces printed for the first time are placed 
at the commencement of the Volume. 

London, December, 1845. 

To these few and touching words of the London Pre- 
face, the American publishers have only to add that the 
sacredness of Hood's dying request has been religiously 
observed in the reprint — not a line of the Poems having 
been omitted. All will be found either in the present vol- 
ume or in the recently pubhshed " Prose and Verse " in the 
Library. In the latter collection are included that wonder- 
ful composition the Legend of Miss Killmansegg, the Elm 
Tree, the Dream of Eugene Aram, various Odes and Bal- 



PREFACE. 



lads, the Song of the Shirt, and the chief of the humanita- 
rian poems by which Hood in his last days became so en- 
deared to the world. 

The London Press has but one voice in speaking of Mr. 
Hood and his writings — admiration mingled with pathetic 
regret. Says the Daily News (no doubt Mr. Dickens 
himself holding the pen) in language echoed by many 
others : — 

" ' This collection of Mr. Hood's serious poems is made 
in fulfilment of his own desire. It was among his last 
instructions to those who were dearest to him.' 

" Much is expressed in this opening paragraph of the brief 
and unaffected preface to this book. Around the death-bed 
of the great genius whose name it bears, consoling recol- 
lections of the thoughtful exercise of high powers diffused 
peace and resignation. No wish to blot one line in these, 
his best and worthiest efforts, troubled his repose. But, 
arrived at the last sad test and trial of all that is good and 
durable in life, he could contemplate his legacy to mankind, 
and thank God for its Christian spirit, and look with hope 
and trust to its results, when he should be no more. 

" Pity for the erring, mercy to the weak, scorn of hypo- 
crisy and bigotry ; the preservation, through a rough life, 
of every humanising and tender thought to which its youth 
gave birth, were the sustaining impulses to this desire, as 
they are the spirit of these poems. If any man can read 
The Bridge of Sighs, without the deepest sympathy and 
compassion, or The Song of a Shirt, without being 
touched to the soul, in his awakened sorrow for the miseries 
in which so many of his fellow-creatures pine and wear 
away their lives, let him 

Pray Heaven for a human heart. 



PREFACE. 



that he may come, in time, to have some portion in the last 
bequest of Thomas Hood. 

" Passing from these productions as being widely known 
of late, and (for the same reason) from The Dream of Eu- 
gene Aram, The Haunted House, and The Golden Le- 
gend OF Miss Killmansegg (all of extraordinary merit), we 
will confine our extracts to two minor pieces, with which 
our readers may be less acquainted. There is, in the first, 
a sentiment so touching and so universal, that there will 
probably be no collection of poems in the English tongue 
for centuries to come, in which it will not find a place : — 

STANZAS. 

Farewell Life ! my senses swim, 
And the world is growing dim : 
Thronging shadows cloud the light. 
Like the advent of the night — 
Colder, colder, colder still. 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the mould above the rose ! 

Welcome Life ! the Spirit strives ! 
Strength returns and hope revives ; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn, — 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom. 
Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould ! 
April, 1845. 

" The next (the Ode on a distant prospect of Clapham 
Academy) is of a different class, but who has not this poem 
in his mind and his experience ? 



PREFACE. 



" The preface, from which we have ah'eady quoted, ex- 
presses a hope ' that in any future recital of the names of 
writers who have contributed to the stock of genuine 
Enghsh poetry, Thomas Hood will find honorable men- 
tion.' Before it can be otherwise, not only must the cha- 
racter of genuine English poetry be altogether changed, but 
with it the recollections, fancies, affections, and very nature 
of men. 

" We may be allowed to add one parting word ; not of the 
Author, but the deceased friend. That he was a man of a 
most free and noble spirit, who harbored none of the 
grudging jealousies too often attendant on the pursuit of 
literature ; who found no detraction from his own merits 
in the success and praise of another ; who, beset by great 
infirmity of body, and many sharp anxieties of mind, could 
travel far out of his way to swell, with his generous pen, 
the triumph of a young writer, with whom he had, at that 
time, little or no acquaintance, saving through his works ; — 
no one living should know better, than the writer of this 
faltering tribute to his memory." 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 
THE LEE-SHORE ..... . . 1 

THE DEATH-BED . . . . . . , 3 

TO MY DAUGHTER. ON HER BIRTHDAY . . . .4 

LINES ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN THE 

SAME CHAMBER . ' , . . . 6 

TO A CHILD EMBRACING ITS MOTHER . . . , .7 

STANZAS ........ 9 

TO A FALSE FRIEND . . . . , , .10 

THE poet's portion . . . , . .11 

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY . , , . . .13 

FLOWERS . . . . . i , -jsrJ^ • ; • 14 

TO • . . . . . ■ ^ . Ni^ . . .15 

TO . . . , , ... 16 

TO — ...... x • ":':z . . 1*7 

serenade . . . . . ... IS 

verses in an album . . . ■ . ''"^'J~, . . 19 

BALLAD . . . . . . , .20 

THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE . . . , . , 21 

TO . COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM . , . . 23 

SONNETS. 

TO THE OCEAN . . . . , T , T.'- ^ 26 

LEAR ........ 27 

SONNET TO A SONNET . . . . . , .28 

FALSE POETS AND TRUE . . . . . . 29 

TO . . . . . , , ... 30 

FOR THE 14th of FEBRUARY ...-;. . , 31 



CONTENTS. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD .... 

TO A SliEEPITfG CHILD 

*' THE WORLD IS WITH ME, AND ITS MANY CARES ' 



PAGE 

32 

33 

, 34 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES 

HERO AJSED LEANDER 

LTCUS, THE CENTAUR 

THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT 



35 

83 
119 
135 



MINOR POEMS. 
A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW 
THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER . 
SONG. FOR MUSIC . 
ODE : AUTUMN 
HYMN TO THE SUN . 
TO A COLD BEAUTY 
AUTUMN 

THE SEA OF DEATH. A FRAGMENT 
BALLAD .... 

BALLAD .... 
THE WATER LADY. . 
THE EXILE 
TO AN ABSENTEE 

SONG .... 

ODE TO THE MOON . 

TO 

THE FORSAKEN 



147 

151 
157 
158 
161 
163 
165 
166 
168 
169 
171 
172 
173 
174 
175 
179 
ISO 



SONNETS. 
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE 
TO FANCY ...... 

TO AN ENTHUSIAST .... 

" IT IS NOT DEATH, THAT SOMETIME IN A SIGH " 
"BY Ev'rY sweet TRADITION OF TRUE HEARTS" 
ON RECEIVING A GIFT .... 

SILENCE ..... 

"the curse of ADAM THE OLD CURSE OF ALL " 
"liOVE, DEAREST LADY, SUCH AS I WOULD SPEAK' 



181 
182 
183 
184 
185 
186 
137 
188 
189 



CONTENTS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK, AN ALLEGORY . . , .193 

ODE TO RAE WILSOW, ESQ. . . ., . 196 

THE TWO SWAIVS. A FAIRY TALE . . . . .214 

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY . 225 



POEMS 



THE LEE-SHORE. 



Sleet ! and Hail ! and Thunder ! 

And ye Winds that rave, 
Till the sands thereunder 

Tinge the sullen wave — 

Winds, that like a Demon, 

Howl with horrid note 
Round the toiling Seaman, 

In his tossing boat — 

From his humble dwelling, 

On the shingly shore, 
Where the billows swelling. 

Keep such hollow roar — 

From that weeping Woman, 
Seeking with her cries. 

Succor superhuman 

From the frowning skies — 
2 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



From the Urchin pining 
For his Father's knee — 

From the lattice shining, 
Drive him out to sea ! 

Let broad leagues dissever 
Him from yonder foam ; — 

Oh, God ! to think Man ever 
Comes too near his Home ! 



THE DEATH-BED. 



THE DEATH-BED. 



We watch'd her breathing thro' the night. 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak, 

So slowly mov'd about. 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers. 
Her quiet eyelids clos'd — she had 

Another morn than ours. 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



TO MY DAUGHTER 



ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



Dear Fanny ! nine long years ago, 
While yet the morning sun was low, 
And rosy with the eastern glow 

The landscape smil'd ; 
Whilst low'd the newly-waken'd herds- 
Sweet as the early song of birds, 
I heard those first, delightful words, 

"Thou hast a child!" 

Along with that uprising dew 

Tears glisten'd in my eyes, though few, 

To hail a dawning quite as new 

To me, as Time : 
It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
But like a happy maid, though coy. 
With grief-like welcome, even Joy 

Forestalls its prime. 

So may'st thou live, dear ! many years, 
In all the bliss that life endears. 
Not without smiles, nor yet from tears 
Too strictly kept : 



TO MY DAUGHTER. 



When first thy infant littleness 
I folded in my fond caress, 
The greatest proof of happiness 
Was this — I wept. 

Sept., 1839. 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



LINES 



ON SEEING MY WIFE AND TWO CHILDREN SLEEPING IN 
THE SAME CHAMBER. 



And has the earth lost its so spacious round, 

The sky its blue circumference above. 

That in this little chamber there is found 

Both earth and heaven — my universe of love ! 

All that my God can give me or remove, 

Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death. 

Sweet that in this small compass I behove 

To live their living and to breathe their breath ! 

Almost I wish that with one common sigh 

We might resign all mundane care and strife, 

And seek together that transcendent sky. 

Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife, 

Together pant in everlasting life ! 

CoBLENTz, Nov., 1835. 



TO A CHILD. 



TO A CHILD 

EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 



Love thy mother, little one ! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 



Gaze upon her living eyes, 
And mirror back her love for thee, — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes I 



Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told, — 
Hereafter thou may'st press in wo, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow ! 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
Altho' it be not silver-grey ; 
Too early Death, led on by Care, 
May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh ! revere her raven hair ! 



Pray for her at eve and morn, 
That Heaven may long the stroke defer,- 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 



STANZAS. 



STANZAS. 



Farewell Life ! my senses swim, 
And the world is growing dim : 
Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
Like the advent of the night — 
Colder, colder, colder still. 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy odor grows — 
I smell the mould above the rose ! 

Welcome Life ! the Spirit strives ! 
Strength returns and hope revives ; 
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn, — 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom. 
Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
I smell the rose above the mould ! 



April, 1845. 



2* 



10 HOOD'S POEMS. 



TO A FALSE FRIEND. 



OaR hands have met, but not our hearts ; 
Our hands will never meet again. 
Friends, if we have ever been, 
Friends we cannot now remain : 
I only know I lov'd you once, 
I only know I lov'd in vain ; 
Our hands have met, but not our hearts ; 
Our hands will never meet again ! 

Then farewell to heart and hand ! 
I would our hands had never met : 
Even the outward form of love 
Must be resign'd with some regret. 
Friends, we still might seem to be, 
If my wrong could e'er forget 
Our hands have join'd but not our hearts 
I would our hands had never met ! 



THE POET'S PORTION. 11 



THE POET'S PORTION. 



What is mine — -a treasury — a dower — 
A magic talisman of mighty power ? 
A poet's wide possession of the earth. 
He has th' enjoyment of a flov/er's birth 
Before its budding — ere the first red streaks, — 
And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. 
Look — if his dawn be not as other men's ! 
Twenty bright fliislies — ere another kens 
The first of sunlight is abroad — he sees 
Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, 
And opes the splendid fissures of the morn. 
When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn 
Linger for harvesting ? Before the leaf 
Is commonly abroad, in his pil'd sheaf 
The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. 
No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, 
Bnt he will sip it first — before the lees. 
' Tis his to taste rich honey, — ere the bees 
Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall 
June's rosy advent for his coronal ; 
Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, 
Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. 
Oh ! blest to see the flower in its seed, 
Before its leafy presence ; for indeed 



12 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Leaves are but wkigs, on which the summer flies, 
And each thing perishable fades and dies, 
Escap'd in thought ; but his rich thinkings be 
Like overflows of immortality. 
So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, 
But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever. 



TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. 13 



TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. 



I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring, 
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing : 
" Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, 
Only for looks that may turn back on me ; 

Only for roses that your chance may throw — 
Though wither'd — I will wear them on my brow, 
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain ; 
Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again. 

Thy love before thee, I must tread behind. 
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind ; 
But trust not all her fondness though it seem. 
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream. 

Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet ; 

But smiles betray, and music sings deceit ; 

And words speak false ; — yet, if they welcome prove, 

I'll be their echo, and repeat their love. 

Only if waken'd to sad truth at last, 
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past ; 
When thou art vext, then, turn again, and see 
Thou hast lov'd Hope, but Memory lov'd thee.*' 



14 HOOD'S POEMS. 



FLOWERS. 



I WILL not have the mad Clytie, 
Whose head is turn'd by the sun ; 
The tulip is a courtly quean, 
Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
The cowslip is a country wench. 
The violet is a nun ; — 
But I will woo the dainty rose. 
The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 
In too much haste to wed, 
And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
The wolfsbane I should dread • 
Nor will I dreary rosemarye. 
That always mourns the dead ; — 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 
With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint, 

And so is no mate for me — 

And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, 

She is of such low degree ; 

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 

And the broom's betroth'd to the bee ; — 

But I will plight with the dainty rose, 

For fairest of all is she. 



TO — . 15 



•- TO 



Still glides the gentle streamlet on, 
With shifting current new and strange ; 
The water that was here is gone, 
But those green shadows never change. 

Serene or ruffled by the storm, 
On present waves, as on the past, 
Themirror'd grove retains its form. 
The self-same trees their semblance cast. 

The hue each fleeting globule wears. 
That drop bequeaths it to the next ; 
One picture still the surface bears. 
To illustrate the murmur'd text. 

So, love, however time may flow. 
Fresh hours pursuing those that flee, 
One constant image still shall show 
My tide of life is true to thee. 



16 HOOD'S POEMS. 



TO 



Let us make a leap, my dear, 
In our love, of many a year, 
And date it very far away. 
On a bright clear summer day. 
When the heart was like a sun 
To itself, and falsehood none ; 
And the rosy lips a part 
Of the very loving heart. 
And the shining of the eye 
But a sign to know it by ; — 
When my faults were all forgiven. 
And my life deserv'd of Heaven. 
Dearest, let us reckon so. 
And love for all that long ago ; 
Each absence count a year complete, 
And keep a birthday when we meet. 



TO . 17 



TO 



I LOVE thee — I love thee ! 

'Tis all that I can say ; — 
It is my vision in the night, 

My dreaming in the day ; 
The very echo of my heart, 

The blessing when I pray : 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

Is all that I can say. 

I love thee — I love thee ! 

Is ever on my tongue ; 
In all my proudest poesy. 

That chorus still is sung ; 
It is the verdict of my eyes, 

Amidst the gay and young : 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

A thousand maids among. 

I love thee — I love thee ! 

Thy bright and hazel glance, 
The mellow lute upon those lips. 

Whose tender tones entrance ; 
But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs 

That still these words enhance, 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

Whatever be thy chance. 



IS HOOD'S POEMS. 



SERENADE. 



Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 

I wake and passionate watches keep ; 
And yet while I address thee now, 

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, 

That tender thought of love and thee. 
That while the world is hush'd so deep, 

Thy soul's perhaps awake to me ! 

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep ! 

With golden visions for thy dower. 
While I this midnight vigil keep, 

And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 
To me 'tis sweeter than the power 

Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd. 
That I alone, at this still hour, 

In patient love outwatch the world. 



VERSES IN AN ALBUM. 19 



VERSES IN AN ALBUM 



Far above the hollow 
Tempest, and its moan, 
Singeth bright Apollo 
In his golden zone, — 
Cloud doth never shade him, 
Nor a storm invade him, 
On his joyous throne. 

So when I behold me 
In an orb as bright. 
How thy soul doth fold me 
In its throne of light ! 
Sorrow never paineth, 
Nor a care attaineth, 
To that blessed height. 



20 HOOD'S POEMS. 



BALLAD 



It was not in the winter 
Our loving lot was cast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 
We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 

That churlish season never frown'd 
On early lovers yet ! 
Oh, no — the world was newly crown'd 
With flowers when first we met. 

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 
But still you held me fast ; 
It was the time of roses, — 
We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 



THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE. 21 



THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE 



'Tis even — on the pleasant banks of Rhine 
The thrush is singing and the dove is cooing ; 
A Youth and Maiden on the turf recline 
Alone — and he is wooing. 

Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love 
No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers, 
Though round them both, and in the air above, 
The tender spirit hovers. 

Untouch'd by lovely Nature and her laws, 
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses ; 
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws, 
Rejecting his addresses. 

Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave, 
Bright eyes and dainty lips and tresses curly. 
In outward loveliness a child of Eve, 
But cold as nymph of Lurley. 

The more Love tries her pity to engross. 
The more she chills him with a strange behavior ; 
Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross 
And image of the Saviour. 



22 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Forth goes the lover with a farewell moan, 
As from the presence of a thing unhuman ; — 
Oh, what unholy spell hath turn'd to stone 
The young warm heart of woman ! 



H^ 



'Tis midnight — and the moonbeam, cold and wan, 
On bower and river quietly is sleeping, 
And o'er the corse of a self-murder'd man 
The Maiden fair is weeping. 

In vain she looks into his glassy eyes. 
No pressure answers to her hands so pressing ; 
In her fond arms impassively he lies. 
Clay-cold to her caressing. 

Despairing, stunn'd, by her eternal loss, 
She flies to succor that may best beseem her ; 
But, lo ! a frowning figure veils the Cross, 
And hides the blest Redeemer ! 

With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll. 
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters, 
The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul 
And her young heart in fetters. 

" Wretch ! sinner ! renegade ! to truth and God, 
Thy holy faith for human love to barter !" 
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod 
Sinks, Bigotry's last martyr ! 

And side by side the hapless Lovers lie ; 
Tell me, harsh Priest ! by yonder tragic token. 
What part hath God in such a bond, whereby 
Or hearts or vows are broken ? 



TO . 23 



TO 



COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM. 



I GAZE upon a city, — 
A city new and strange, — 
Down many a watery vista 
My fancy takes a range ; 
From side to side I saunter, 
And wonder where I am ; 
And can you be in England, 
And / at Rotterdam ! 

Before me lie dark waters 
In broad canals and deep, 
Whereon the silver moonbeams 
Sleep, restless in their sleep ; 
A sort of vulgar Venice 
Reminds me where I am ; 
Yes, yes, you are in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 

Tall houses with quaint gables. 
Where frequent windows shine, 
Aud quays that lead to bridges, 
And trees in formal line, 



24 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And masts of spicy vessels 
From western Surinam, 
All tell me you're in England, 
But I'm in Rotterdam. 

Those sailors, how outlandish 
The face and form of each ! 
They deal in foreign gestures. 
And use a foreign speech ; 
A tongue not learn'd near Isis, 
Or studied by the Cam, 
Declares that you're in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 

And now across a market 
My doubtful way I trace. 
Where stands a solemn statue, 
The Genius of the place ; 
And to the great Erasmus 
I offer my salaam ; 
Who tells me you're in England, 
But I'm at Rotterdam. 

The coffee-room is open — 
I mingle in its crowd, — 
The dominos are noisy — 
The hookahs raise a cloud ; 
The flavor now of Fearon's, 
That mingles with my dram, 
Reminds me you're in England, 
And I'm at Rotterdam. 



TO . 25 

Then here it goes, a bumper — 
The toast it shall be mine, 
In Schiedam, or in sherry, 
Tokay, or hock of Rhine ; 
It well deserves the brightest, 
Where sunbeam ever swam — 
" The girl I love in England" 
I drink at Rotterdam ! 



March, 1835. 



26 HOOD'S POEMS. 



I. 

TO THE OCEAN. 
{Coblentz, May, 1835.) 

Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love. 
That once, in rage with the wild winds at strife, 
Thou darest menace my unit of a life. 
Sending my clay below, my soul above, 
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove 
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth ? 
Yet did'st thou ne'er restore my fainting health ? — 
Did'st thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove ? 
Nay, did'st thou not against my own dear shore 
Full break, last link between my land and me ? — 
My absent friends talk in thy very roar. 
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see. 
And, if I must not see my England more. 
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee ! 



SONNETS. 27 



II. 



LEAR. 



A POOR old king, with sorrow for my crown, 
Thron'd upon straw, and mantled with the wind- 
For pity, my own tears have made me blind 
That I might never see my children's frown ; 
And may be madness, like a friend, has thrown 
A folded fillet over my dark mind, 
So that unkindly speech may sound for kind, — 
Albeit I know not. — I am childish grown — 
And have not gold to purchase wit withal — 
I that have once maintain'd most royal state — 
A very bankrupt now that may not call 
My child, my child — all-beggar'd save in tears, 
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate, 
Foolish — and blind — and overcome with years ! 



28 HOOD'S POEMS. 



III. 

SONNET TO A SONNET. 



Rare composition of a poet-knight, 
Most chivalrous amongst chivalric men, 
Distinguish'd for a polish'd lance and pen 
In tuneful contest and in tourney-fight ; 
Lustrous in scholarship, in honor bright, 
Accomplish'd in all graces current then, 
Humane as any in historic ken, 
Brave, handsome, noble, affable, polite ; 
Most courteous to that race become of late 
So fiercely scornful of all kind advance, 
Rude, bitter, coarse, implacable in hate 
To Albion, plotting ever her mischance, — 
Alas, fair verse ! how false and out of date 
Thy phrase " sweet enemy " applied to France ! 



SONNETS. 29 



IV. 

FALSE POETS AND TRUE. 



Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, 

Turning a spirit as he nears the sky ! 

His voice is heard, but body there is none 

To fix the vague excursions of the eye. 

So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die 

Obscur'd, and hid by death's oblivious shroud, 

And Earth inherits the rich melody 

Like raining music from the morning cloud. 

Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud. 

Their voices reach us through the lapse of space 

The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd 

Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race ; 

But only lark and nightingale forlorn 

Fill up the silences of night and morn. 



30 HOOD'S POEMS. 



TO 



My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed 

On hope ; Time goes with such a heavy pace 

That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace, 

As if he slept — forgetting his old speed : 

For, as in sunshine only we can read 

The march of minutes on the dial's face. 

So in the shadows of this lonely place 

There is no love, and Time is dead indeed. 

But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart. 

Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies. 

It seems we only meet to tear apart 

With aching hands and lingering of eyes. 

Alas, alas ! that we must learn hours' flight 

By the same light of love that makes them bright ! 



SONNETS. 31 



yi. 

FOR THE 14th of FEBRUARY. 



No popular respect will I omit 

To do thee honor on this happy day, 

When every loyal lover tasks his wit 

His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, 

And to his mistress dear his hopes convey. 

Rather thou knowest I would still outrun 

All calendars with Love's, — whose date alway 

Thy bright eyes govern better than the Sun, — 

For with thy favor was my life begun ; 

And still I reckon on from smiles to smiles. 

And not by summers, for I thrive on none 

But those thy cheerful countenance compiles : 

Oh ! if it be to choose and call thee mine, 

Love, thou art every day my Valentine. 



32 HOOD'S POEMS. 



VII. 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 



I. 

Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep, — 
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye, 
Breathing as it would neither live nor die 
With that unchanging countenance of sleep ! 
As if its silent dream, serene and deep, 
Had lin'd its slumber with a still blue sky, 
So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie 
With no more life than roses — ^just to keep 
The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. 
O blossom boy ! so calm is thy repose. 
So sweet a compromise of life and death, 
'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose 
For memory to stain their inward leaf. 
Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief. 



SONNETS. 33 



VIII. 

TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 



II. 

Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd 
No eyes could wake so beautiful as they : 
Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, 
I lov'd their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd 
Of dimples ; — for those parted lips so seem'd, 
I never thought a smile could sweetlier play, 
Nor that so graceful life could chase away 
Thy graceful death, — till those blue eyes upbeam'd. 
Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown'd, 
And roses bloom more rosily for joy, 
And odorous silence ripens into sound, 
And fingers move to sound. — All-beauteous boy ! 
How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, 
If not more lovely, thou art more like Love ! 
2* 



34 HOOD'S POEMS. 



IX. 



The World is with me, and its many cares, 

Its woes — its wants — ^the anxious hopes and fears 

That wait on all terrestrial affairs — 

The shades of former and of future years — 

Foreboding fancies, and prophetic tears, 

Quelling a spirit that was once elate. 

Heavens ! what a wilderness the world appears. 

Where Youth, and Mirth, and Health are out of date ! 

But no — a laugh of innocence and joy 

Resounds, like music of the fairy race. 

And, gladly turning from the world's annoy, 

I gaze upon a little radiant face, 

And bless, internally, the merry boy 

Who " makes a son-shine in a shady place." 



THE PLEA 



THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES 



1827. 



CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. 



My dear Frien.d, 

I THANK my literary fortune that I am not reduced, like many better 
wits, to barter dedications, for the hope or promise of patronage, with 
some nominally great man ; but that where true affection points, and honest 
respect, I am free to gratify my head and heart by a sincere inscription. 
An intimacy and dearness, worthy of a much earlier date than our acquaint- 
ance can refer to, direct me at once to your name : and with this acknow- 
ledgment of your ever kind feeling towards me, I desire to record a re- 
spect and admiration for you as a writer, which no one acquainted with 
our literature, save Elia himself, will think disproportionate or misplaced. 
If I had not these better reasons to govern me, I should be guided to the 
same selection by your intense yet critical relish for the works of our great 
Dramatist, and for that favorite play in particular which has furnished the 
subject of my verses. 

It is my design, in the following Poem, to celebrate, by an allegory, that 
immortality which Shakspeare has conferred on the Fairy mythology by 
his Midsummer Night's Dream. But for him, those pretty children of our 
childhood would leave barely their names to our maturer years ; they be- 
long, as the mites upon the plum, to the bloom of fancy, a thing generally 
too frail and beautiful to withstand the rude handling of time : but the 
Poet has made this most perishable part of the mind's creation equal to the 
most enduring ; he has so intertwined the Elfins with human sympathies, 
and linked them by so many delightful associations with the productions 
of nature, that they are as real to the mind's eye, as their green magical 
circles to the outer sense. 

It would have been a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though they 
were but as the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the 
visible world. 

I am. 

My dear Friend, 

Yours most truly, 

T. HOOD. 



THE PLEA 



THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 



^TwAS in that mellow season of the year 
^When the hot Sun singes the yellow leaves 
Till they be gold, — and with a broader sphere 
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves ; 
When more abundantly the spider weaves, 
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime ; 
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves, 
Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time. 
To think how the bright months had spent their prime, 



So that, wherever I addressed my way, 

I seem'd to track the melancholy feet 

Of him that is the Father of Decay, 

And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet ;- 

Wherefore regretfully I made retreat 

To some unwasted regions of my brain, 

Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat, 

And bade that bounteous season bloom again, 

And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain. 



40 HOOD'S POEMS. 



It was a shady and sequester'd scene, 
Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, 
Planted with his own laurels evergreen, 
And roses that for endless summer blow ; 
And there were founting springs to overflow 
Their marble basins, — and cool green arcades 
Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw 
Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades,- 
With timid coneys cropping the green blades. 



And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish. 
Argent and gold ; and some of Tyrian skin. 
Some crimson-barr'd ; and ever at a wish 
They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin 
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, 
Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom ; 
Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win 
My changeable regard, — for so we doom 
Things born of thought to vanish or to bloom. 



And there were many birds of many dyes. 
From tree to tree still faring to and fro. 
And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes. 
And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow, 
Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow. 
Besides some vocalists, without a name. 
That oft on fairy errands come and go. 
With accents magical ; — and all were tame, 
And peckled at my hand where'er I came. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 41 



And for my sylvan company, in lieu 

Of Pampinea with her lively peers, 

Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, 

All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, 

For she was gracious to my childish years, 

And made me free of her enchanted round ; 

Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears. 

And plants her court upon a verdant mound, 

Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound. 



" Ah me," she cries, " was ever moonlight seen 
So clear and tender for our midnight trips ? 
Go some one forth, and with a trump convene 
My lieges all !" — Away the goblin skips 
A pace or two apart, and deftly strips 
The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, 
Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips, 
Making it utter forth a shrill small shriek. 
Like a fray'd bird in the grey owlet's beak. 



And lo ! upon my fix'd delighted ken 
Appear'd the loyal Fays. — Some by degrees 
Crept from the primrose buds that open'd then. 
And some from bell-shap'd blossoms like the bees, 
Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas. 
Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass ; 
Some from the rivers, others from tall trees 
Dropp'd like shed blossoms, silent to the grass, 
Spirits and elfins small, of every class. 



42 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, 
Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain ; 
And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, 
Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain. 
Fresh dripping from a cloud — some bloomy rain, 
Then circling the bright Moon, had wash'd her car, 
And still bedew'd it with a various stain : 
■ Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, 
Who bears all fairy embassies afar. 



But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled, 

Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen 

Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled. 

Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been 

Sometime obnoxious), kept him from his queen, 

And made her now peruse the starry skies 

Prophetical with such an absent mien ; 

Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes, 

And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs — 



Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon 
Their hushing dances languish'd to a stand, 
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, 
All on their drooping stems they sink unfann'd, — 
So into silence droop'd the fairy band, 
To see their empress dear so pale and still, 
Crowding her softly round on either hand, 
As pale as frosty snow-drops, and as chill, 
To whom the sceptred dame reveals her il^ 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 43 



"Alas," quoth she, "ye know our fairy lives 
Are leased upon the fickle faith of men ; 
Not measured out against fate's mortal knives, 
Like human gossamers, we perish when 
We fade, and are forgot in worldly ken, — 
Though poesy has thus prolonged our date, 
Thanks be to the sweet Bard's auspicious pen 
That rescued us so long ! — howbeit of late 
I feel some dark misgivings of our fate. 



" And this dull day my melancholy sleep 
Hath been so thronged with images of wo, 
That even now I cannot choose but weep 
To think this was some sad prophetic show 
Of future horror to befall us so,— 
Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress, — 
Yea, our poor empire's fall and overthrow, — 
For this was my long vision's dreadful stress, 
And when I waked my trouble was not less. 



" Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek, 
Such leaden weight dragg'd these Icarian wings. 
My faithless wand was wavering and weak. 
And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings — 
The birds refused to sing for me — all things 
Disown'd their old allegiance to our spells ; 
The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings ; 
And, when I pass'd, the valley-lily's bells 
Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells. 



44 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" And ever on the faint and flagging air 

A doleful spirit with a dreary note 

Cried in my fearful ear, ' Prepare ! prepare ! ' 

Which soon I knew came from a raven's throat, 

Perch'd on a Cyprus bough not far remote, — 

A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot. 

That always cometh with his soot-black coat 

To make hearts dreary : — for he is a blot 

Upon the book of life, as well ye wot ! — 



" Wherefore some while I bribed him to be mute, 

With bitter acorns stuffing his foul maw. 

Which barely I appeased, when some fresh bruit 

Startled me all aheap ! — and soon I saw 

The horridest shape that ever raised my awe, — 

A monstrous giant, very huge and tall, 

Such as in elder times, devoid of law, 

With wicked might grieved the primeval ball, 

And this was sure the deadliest of them all ! 



" Gaunt was he as a wolf of Languedoc, 
With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown ; 
So from his barren poll one hoary lock 
Over his wrinkled front fell far adown. 
Well nigh to where his frosty brows did frown 
Like jagged icicles at cottage eves ; 
And for his coronal he wore some brown 
And bristled ears gather'd from Ceres' sheaves, 
Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 45 



" And lo ! upon a mast rear'd far aloft, 
He bore a very bright and crescent blade, 
The which he waved so dreadfully, and oft, 
In meditative spite, that, sore dismay'd, 
I crept into an acorn-cup for shade ; 
Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by : 
I trow his look was dreadful, for it made 
The trembling birds betake them to the sky, 
For every leaf was lifted by his sigh. 



" And ever as he sigh'd, his foggy breath 
Blurr'd out the landscape like a flight of smoke : 
Thence knew I this was either dreary Death 
Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. 
Ah wretched me ! " — Here, even as she spoke, 
The melancholy Shape came gliding in. 
And lean'd his back against an antique oak. 
Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin. 
They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin. 



Then what a fear seized all the little rout ! 
Look how a flock of panick'd sheep will stare — 
And huddle close — and start — and wheel about, 
Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,- 
So did that sudden Apparition scare 
All close aheap those small affrighted things ; 
Nor sought they now the safety of the air. 
As if some leaden spell withheld their wings ; 
But who can fly that ancientest of Kings ? 



46 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear 
And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat. 
Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear : 
" Alas !" quoth she, " is there no nodding wheat 
Ripe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet, — 
Or wither'd leaves to ravish from the tree, — 
Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat ? 
Think but what vaunting monuments there be 
Builded in spite and mockery of thee. 



" O fret away the fabric walls of Fame, 
And grind down marble Caesars with the dust : 
Make tombs inscriptionless — raze each high name, 
And waste old armors of renown with rust : 
Do all of this, and thy revenge is just : 
Make such decays the trophies of thy prime. 
And check Ambition's overweening lust. 
That dares exterminating war with Time, — 
But we are guiltless of that lofty crime. 



" Frail feeble sprites ! — the children of a dream ! 

Leased on the sufferance of fickle men. 

Like motes dependent on the sunny beam, 

Living but in the sun's indulgent ken, 

And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then ; 

So do we flutter in the glance of youth 

And fervid fancy, — and so perish when 

The eye of faith grows aged ; — in sad truth, 

Feeling thy sway, O Time ! though not thy tooth ! 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 47 



" Where be those old divinities forlorn, 
That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream ? 
Alas ! their memories are dimm'd and torn, 
Like the remainder tatters of a dream : 
So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem ;— 
For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves. 
That holds the wastes of every human scheme. 
O spare us then, — and these our pretty elves, 
We soon, alas ! shall perish of ourselves ! " 



Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name 
Those old Olympians, scatter'd by the whirl 
Of fortune's giddy wheel, and brought to shame, 
Methought a scornful and malignant curl 
Show'd on the lips of that malicious churl. 
To think what noble havocs he had made ; 
So that I fear'd he all at once would hurl 
The harmless fairies into endless shade, — 
Howbeit he stopp'd awhile to whet his blade. 



Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail 
Rise up in concert from their mingled dread ; 
Pity it was to see them, all so pale. 
Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed ; — 
But Puck was seated on a spider's thread, 
That hung between two branches of a briar. 
And 'gan to swing and gambol heels o'er head, 
Like any South wark tumbler on a wire, 
For him no present grief could long inspire. 



48 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops, 

Falling like tiny sparks full fast and free, 

Bedews a pathway from her throne ; — and stops 

Before the foot of her arch enemy. 

And with her little arms enfolds his knee. 

That shows more gristly from that fair embrace ; 

But she will ne'er depart. " Alas ! " quoth she, 

"My painful fingers I will here enlace 

Till I have gain'd your pity for our race. 



" What have we ever done to earn this grudge, 
And hate — (if not too humble for thy hating ?)- 
Look o'er our labors and our lives, and judge 
If there be any ills of our creating ; 
For we are very kindly creatures, dating 
With nature's charities still sweet and bland :— 
O think this murder worthy of debating ! " — 
Herewith she makes a signal with her hand, 
To beckon some one from the Fairy band. 



Anon I saw one of those elfin things, 

Clad all in white like any chorister. 

Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings. 

That made soft music at each little stir, 

But something louder than a bee's demur 

Before he lights upon a bunch of broom, 

And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer, — 

And O his voice was sweet, touch'd with the gloom 

Of that sad theme that argued of his doom ! 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. • 49 



Quoth he, " We make all melodies our care, 
That no false discords may offend the Sun, 
Music's great master — tuning everywhere 
All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one 
Duly to place and season, so that none 
May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn 
The shrill sweet lark ; and when the day is done, 
Hush silent pauses fpr the bird forlorn. 
That singeth with her breast against a thorn. 



" We gather in loud choirs the twittering race, 
That make a chorus with their single note ; 
And tend on new-fledged birds in every place. 
That duly they may get their tunes by rote ; 
And oft, like echoes, answering remote. 
We hide in thickets from the feather'd throng, 
And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat. 
Singing in shrill responses all day long, 
Whilst the glad truant listens to our song. 



" Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love 
The raining music from a morning cloud. 
When vanish'd larks are carolling above. 
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud ; — 
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud 
The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell, 
Shpw thy sweet mercy on this little crowd, 
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell 
Whene'er thou listenest to Philomel." 
4 



50 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Then Saturn thus : — " Sweet is the merry lark, 
That carols in man's ear so clear and strong ; 
And youth must love to listen in the dark 
That tuneful elegy of Tereus' wrong ; 
But I have heard that ancient strain too long, 
For sweet is sweet but when a little strange, 
And I grow weary for some newer song ; 
For wherefore had I wings, unless to range 
Through all things mutable from change to change ? 



" But wouldst thou hear the melodies of Time, 

Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll 

Over hush'd cities, and the midnight chime 

Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll 

Like a last knell over the dead world's soul, 

Saying, Time shall be final of all things. 

Whose late, last voice must elegise the whole, — ; 

O then I clap aloft my brave broad wings. 

And make the wide air tremble while it rings ! " 



Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address, 
Saying, " We be the handmaids of the Spring, 
In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress, 
Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing. 
We tend upon buds' birth and blossoming, 
And count the leafy tributes that they owe — 
As, so much to the earth — so much to fling 
In showers to the brook — so much to go 
In whirlwinds to the clouds that made them grow. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 51 



" The pastoral cowslips are our little pets, 
And daisy stars, whose firmament is green ; 
Pansies, and those veil'd nuns, meek violets, 
Sighing to that warm world from which they screen ; 
And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen ; 
And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath ; 
And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen, 
Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breath, 
Kiss'd by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death. 



" The widow'd primrose weeping to the moon, 
And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright 
A cool libation hoarded for the noon 
Is kept — and she that purifies the light, 
The virgin lily, faithful to her white, 
Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame ; 
And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright, 
Our every godchild, by whatever name — 
Spare us our lives, for we did nurse the same ! " 



Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck 
His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground, 
Saying, " Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck 
With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown'd 
With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found 
Wither'd ? — Whenever have I pluck'd a rose, 
Except to scatter its vain leaves around ? 
For so all gloss of beauty I oppose. 
And bring decay on every fiow'r that blows. 



52 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Or when am I so wroth as when I view 

The wanton pride of Summer ; — how she decks 

The birth-day world with blossoms ever new, 

As if Time had not lived, and heap'd great wrecks 

Of years on years ?~0 then I bravely vex 

And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight. 

And slay them with the wreaths about their necks, 

Like foolish heifers in the holy rite, 

And raise great trophies to my ancient might." 



Then saith another, " We are kindly things, 
And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — 
Witness these hearts embroider'd on our wings, 
To show our constant patronage of love : — 
We sit at even, in sweet bow'rs above 
Lovers, and shake rich odors on the air. 
To mingle with their sighs ; and still remove 
The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear 
Their privacy, and haunt some other where. 



" And we are near the mother when she sits 
Beside the infant in its wicker bed ; 
And we are in the fairy scene that flits 
Across its tender brain : sweet dreams we shed. 
And whilst the tender little soul is fled 
Away, to sport with our young elves, the while 
We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, 
And tickle the soft lips until they smile. 
So that their careful parents they beguile. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 53 



" O then, if ever thou hast breath'd a vow 
At Love's dear portal, or at pale moon-rise 
CrushM the dear curl on a regardful brow 
That did not frown thee from thy honey prize — 
If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs, 
And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within 
To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes, 
Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin, 
For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win !" 



Then Saturn fiercely thus : — " What joy have I 
In tender babes, that have devour'd mine own, 
Whenever to the light I heard them cry. 
Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone ? 
Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown, 
In monstrous dints of my enormous tooth ; 
And, — but the peopled world is too full grown 
For hunger's edge, — I would consume all youth 
At one great meal, without delay or ruth ! 



«' For I am well nigh craz'd and wild to hear 
How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed, 
Saying, We shall not die nor disappear, 
But in these other selves, ourselves succeed, 
Ev'n as ripe flowers pass into their seed 
Only to be renew'd from prime to prime, 
All of which boastings I am forced to read, 
Besides a thousand challenges to Time 
Which bragging lovers have compil'd in rhyme. 



54 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nights, 
There will I steal, and with my hurried hand 
Startle them suddenly from their delights 
Before the next encounter hath been plann'd, 
Ravishing hours in little minutes spann'd ; 
But when they say farewell, and grieve apart. 
Then like a leaden statue I will stand. 
Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart, 
And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart." 



Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green, 
Stept van ward from his mates, that idly stood 
Each at his proper ease, as they had been 
Nursed in the liberty of old Sherwood, 
And wore the livery of Robin Hood, 
Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup, — 
So came this chief right frankly, and made good 
His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up. 
Doffing his cap, which was an acorn's cup : — 



" We be small foresters and gay, who tend 
On trees, and all their furniture of green. 
Training the young boughs airily to bend. 
And show blue snatches of the sky between ; 
Or knit more close intricacies, to screen 
Birds' crafty dwellings as may hide them best, 
But most the timid blackbird's — she, that seen, 
Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest. 
Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 55 



" We bend each tree in proper attitude, 
And founting willows train in silvery falls ; 
We frame all shady roofs and arches rude, 
And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls, 
Or deep recesses where the Echo calls ; — 
We shape all plumy trees against the sky. 
And carve tall elms' Corinthian capitals, — 
When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply, 
Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh. 



" Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell, 

And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees' rind, 

That haply some lone musing wight may spell 

Dainty Aminta, — Gentle Rosalind, — 

Or chastest Laura, — sweetly call'd to mind 

In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down ; — 

And sometimes we enrich grey stems, with twined 

And vagrant ivy, — or rich moss, whose brown 

Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down. 



" And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheer. 
We bear the seedling berries, for increase. 
To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year, 
Careful that mistletoe may never cease ; — 
Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace 
Of sombre forests, or to see light break 
Through sylvan cloisters, and in spring release 
Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake, 
Spare us our lives for the Green Dryad's sake." 



56 - HOOD'S POEMS. 



Then Saturn, with a frown :- — " Go forth, and fell 

Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by 

Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell 

To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky 

Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy 

The next green generation of the tree ; 

But hence with the dead leaves, whene'er they fly,- 

Which in the bleak air I would rather see, 

Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be. 



" For I dislike all prime, and verdant pets. 

Ivy except, that on the aged wall 

Preys with its worm-like roots, and daily frets 

The crumbled tower it seems to league withal, 

King-like, worn down by its ov/n coronal : — 

Neither in forest haunts love I to vv^on, 

Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall. 

And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leaves on, 

Or bare — like Nature in her skeleton. 



" For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs. 
Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs ; 
And there in rustling nuptials we espouse, 
Smit by the sadness in each other's eyes ; — 
But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies, 
And must be courted with the gauds of spring ; 
Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries, 
What shall we always do, but love and sing ? — 
And Time is reckon'd a discarded thing." 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 57 



Here in my dream it made me fret to see 
How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while 
Had blithely jested with calamity, 
With mistim'd mirth mocking the doleful style 
Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile 
To see him so reflect their grief aside. 
Turning their solemn looks to half a smile — 
Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide ;- 
But soon a novel advocate I spied. 



Quoth he — " We teach all natures to fulfil 
Their fore-..ppointed crafts, and instincts meet,- 
The bee's sweet alchemy, — the spider's skill, — 
The pismire's care to garner up his wheat, — 
And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, — 
The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest, — 
But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet 
And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast. 
Its tender pity of poor babes distrest. 



" Sometimes we cast our shapes, and in sleek skins 
Delve with the timid mole, that aptly delves 
From our example ; so the spider spins. 
And eke the silk-v/orm, pattern'd by ourselves : 
Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves 
Of early bees, and busy toils commence, 
Watch'd of wise men, that know not we are elves, 
But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense. 
And praise our human-like intelligence. 
4* 



58 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale. 
And plaintive dirges the late robins sing, 
What time the leaves are scatter'd by the gale. 
Mindful of that old forest burying ; — 
As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing, 
For whom our craft most curiously contrives, 
If thou hast caught a bee upon the wing. 
To take his honey-bag, — spare us our lives. 
And we will pay the ransom in full hives." 



" Now by my glass," quoth Time, " ye do offend 
In teaching the brown bees that careful lore. 
And frugal ants, whose millions would have end, 
But they lay up for need a timely store. 
And travail with the seasons evermore ; 
Whereas Great Mammoth long hath pass'd away, 
And none but I can tell what hide he wore ; 
Whilst purblind men, the creatures of a day, 
In riddling wonder his great bones survey." 



Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold, 
Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun 
Hath all embroider'd with its crooked gold, 
It was so quaintly wrought, and overrun 
With spangled traceries, — most meet for one 
That was a warden of the pearly streams ; — 
And as he stept out of the shadows dun. 
His jewels sparkled in the pale moon's gleams, 
And shot into the air their pointed beams. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 59 



Quoth he, — " We bear the gold and silver keys 

Of Wbbling springs and fountains, that below 

Course thro' the veiny earth, — which when they freeze 

Into hird chrysolites, we bid to flow, 

Creepirg like subtle snakes, when, as they go, 

We guide their windings to melodious falls, 

At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low. 

Poets havetun'd their smoothest madrigals. 

To sing to ladies in their banquet halls. 



" And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat 
Parches the river god, — whose dusty urn 
Drips miserly, till soon his crystal feet 
Against his pebbly floor wax faint and burn. 
And languid, fish, unpois'd, grow sick and yearn. 
Then scoop we hollows in some sandy nook. 
And little channels dig, wherein we turn 
The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook 
The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook. 



" Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads, 

With living sapphires daintily inlaid, — 

In all soft songs of waters and their reeds, — 

And all reflections in a streamlet made, 

Haply of thy own love, that, disarray'd. 

Kills the fair lily with a livelier white, — 

By silver trouts upspringing from green shade, 

And winking stars reduplicate at night, 

Spare us, poor ministers to such delight." 



ao HOOD'S POEMS. 



Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks 

Mov'd not the spiteful Shade : — Quoth he, " Your feiste 

Shoots wide of mine, for I despise the brooks 

And slavish rivulets that run to waste 

In noontide sweats, or, like poor vassals, haste 

To swell the vast dominion of the sea, 

In whose great presence I am held disgrac'd, 

And neighbor'd with a king that rivals me 

In ancient might and hoary majesty. 



" Whereas I rul'd in Chaos, and still keep 
The awful secrets of that ancient dearth, 
Before the briny fountains of the deep 
Brimm'd up the hollow cavities of earth ; — 
I saw each trickling Sea-God at his birth, 
Each pearly Naiad with her oozy locks. 
And infant Titans of enormous girth, 
Whose huge young feet yet stumbled on the rocks, 
Stunning the early world with frequent shocks. 



" Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood, 

That scar'd the world ? — By this sharp scythe they fell, 

And half the sky was curdled with their blood : 

So have all primal giants sigh'd farewell. 

No Wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell. 

Nor pearly Naiads. All their days are done 

That strove with Time, untimely, to excel ; 

Wherefore I raz'd their progenies, and none ^ 

But my great shadow intercepts the sun ! " 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 61 



Then saith the timid Fay — " Oh, mighty Time ! 
Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans' fall, 
For they were stain'd with many a bloody crime : 
Great giants work great wrongs, — but we are small, 
For love goes lowly ; but Oppression's tall, 
And with surpassing strides goes foremost still 
Where love indeed can hardly reach at all ; 
Like a poor dwarf o'erburthen'd with good will, 
That labors to efface the tracks of ill. — 



" Man even strives with Man, but we eschew 
The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor ; 
Nay, we are gentle as sweet heaven's dew, 
Beside the red and horrid drops of war, 
Weeping the cruel hates men battle for. 
Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite : 
For in the gentle breast we ne'er withdraw, 
But only when all love hath taken flight, 
And youth's warm gracious heart is harden'd quite. 



" So are our gentle natures intertwin'd 
With sweet humanities, and closely knit 
In kindly sympathy with human kind. 
Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit, 
All hopeless maids and lovers, — ^nor omit 
Magical succors unto hearts forlorn : — 
We charm man's life, and do not perish it ; — 
So judge us by the helps we show'd this morn, 
To one who held his wretched days in scorn. 



62 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" 'Twas nigh sweet Amwell ; — for the Queen had task'd 

Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea, 

Whereon the noontide sun had not yet bask'd ; 

Wherefore some patient man we thought to see, 

Planted in moss-grown rushes to the knee. 

Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim ; — 

Howbeit no patient fisherman was he 

That cast his sudden shadow from the brim, 

Making us leave our toils to gaze on him. 



*' His face was ashy pale, and leaden care 
Had sunk the levell'd arches of his brow, 
Once bridges for his joyous thoughts to fare 
Over those melancholy springs and slow, 
That from his piteous eyes began to flow, 
And fell anon into the chilly stream ; 
Which, as his mimick'd image show'd below, 
Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam. 
Making grief sadder in its own esteem. 



" And lo ! upon the air we saw him stretch 
His passionate arms ; and, in a wayward strain, 
He 'gan to elegize that fellow wretch 
That with mute gestures answer'd him again. 
Saying, ' Poor slave, how long wilt thou remain 
Life's sad weak captive in a prison strong. 
Hoping with tears to rust away thy chain. 
In bitter servitude to worldly wrong ? — 
Thou wear'st that mortal livery too long V 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 63 



" This, with more spleenful speeches and some tears, 
When he had spent upon the imaged wave, 
Speedily I conven'd my elfin peers 
Under the lily-cups, that we might save 
This woful mortal from a wilful grave 
By shrewd diversions of his mind's regret, 
Seeing he was mere melancholy's slave. 
That sank wherever a dark cloud he met, 
And straight was tangled in her secret net. 



" Therefore, as still he watch'd the water's flow, 
Daintily we transform'd, and with bright fins 
Came glancing through the gloom ; some from below 
Rose like dim fancies when a dream begins. 
Snatching the light upon their purple skins ; 
Then under the broad leaves made slow retire 
One like a golden galley bravely wins 
Its radiant course, — another glows like fire, — 
Making that wayward man our pranks admire. 



" And so he banish'd thought, and quite forgot 

All contemplation of that wretched face ; 

And so we wil'd him from that lonely spot 

Along the river's brink : till, by heaven's grace. 

He met a gentle haunter of the place, 

Full of sweet wisdom gather'd from the brooks, 

Who there discuss'd his melancholy case 

With wholesome texts learn'd from kind nature's books, 

Meanwhile he newly trimm'd his lines and hooks." 



64 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Herewith the Fairy ceased. Quoth Ariel now- 
" Let me remember how I sav'd a man, 
Whose fatal noose was fasten'd on a bough, 
Intended to abridge his sad life's span ; ■ 
For haply I was by when he began 
His stern soliloquy in life's dispraise. 
And overheard his melancholy plan, 
How he had made a vow to end his days. 
And therefore follow 'd him in all his ways. 



" Through brake and tangled copse, for much he loath'd 

All populous haunts, and roam'd in forests rude. 

To hide himself from man. But I had cloth'd 

My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued. 

Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, 

Till we were come beside an ancient tree 

Late blasted by a storm. Here he renew'd 

His loud complaints, — choosing that spot to be 

The scene of his last horrid tragedy. 



" It was a wild and melancholy glen. 
Made gloomy by tall firs and cypress dark. 
Whose roots, like any bones of buried men, 
Push'd through the rotten sod for fear's remark ; 
A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark. 
Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray, 
Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark, 
Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey. 
With many blasted oaks moss-grown and grey. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 65 



" But here upon his final desperate clause 
Suddenly I pronounc'd so sweet a strain, 
Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause. 
Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain, 
The sad remainder oozing from his brain 
In timely ecstasies of healing tears, 
Which through his ardent eyes began to drain ; — 
Meanwhile the deadly Fates unclos'd their shears 
So pity me and all my fated peers ! " 



Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hush'd : 

When with the hoary shape a fresh tongue pleads. 

And red as rose the gentle Fairy blush'd 

To read the record of her own good deeds : — 

" It chanc'd," quoth she, " in seeking through the meads 

For honied cowslips, sweetest in the morn. 

Whilst yet the buds were hung with dewy beads, 

And Echo answer'd to the huntsman's horn, 

We found a babe left in the swarths forlorn. 



" A little, sorrowful, deserted thing. 
Begot of love, and yet no love begetting ; 
Guiltless of shame, and yet for shame to wring ; 
And too soon banish'd from a mother's petting. 
To churlish nurture and the wide world's fretting. 
For alien pity and unnatural care ; — 
Alas ! to see how the cold dew kept wetting 
His childish coats, and dabbled all his hair, 
Like gossamers across his forehead fair. 



66 HOOD'S POEMS. 



"' His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech, 
Lay half-way open like a rose-lipp'd shell ; 
And his young cheek was softer than a peach. 
Whereon his tears, for roundness, could not dwell, 
But quickly roll'd themselves to pearls, and fell. 
Some on the grass, and some against his hand. 
Or haply wander'd to the dimpled well. 
Which love beside his mouth had sweetly plann'd. 
Yet not for tears, but mirth and smilings bland. 



" Pity it was to see those frequent tears 
Falling regardless from his friendless eyes ; 
There was such beauty in those twin blue spheres, 
As any mother's heart might leap to prize ; 
Blue were they, like the zenith of the skies 
Softened betwixt two clouds, both clear and mild ; — 
Just touch'd with thought, and yet not over wise. 
They show'd the gentle spirit of a child. 
Not yet by care or any craft defil'd. 



" Pity it was to see the ardent sun 
Scorching his helpless limbs — it shone so warm ; 
For kindly shade or shelter he had none. 
Nor mother's gentle breast, come fair or storm. 
Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform 
Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries. 
All round the infant noisily we swarm. 
Haply some passing rustic to advise — 
Whilst providential Heav'n our care espies, 



THE PLEA OP^ THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 67 



" And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind, 
Who, wond'ring at our loud unusual note, 
Strays curiously aside, and so doth find 
The orphan child laid in the grass remote, 
And laps the foundling in his russet coat. 
Who thence was nurtur'd in his kindly cot : — • 
But how he prosper'd let proud London quote, 
How wise, how rich, and how renown'd he got, 
And chief of all her citizens, I wot. 



" Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames, 
Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandize,- 
Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames. 
And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies : 
Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise. 
The mart of merchants from the East and West ; 
Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies. 
Still bears, in token of his grateful breast. 
The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest — 



" The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest. 

That all the summer, with a tuneful wing, 

Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest. 

Inspirited with dew to leap and sing : — 

So let us also live, eternal King ! 

Partakers of the green and pleasant earth : — 

Pity it is to slay the meanest thing, 

That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth 

Enough there is of joy's decrease and dearth ! 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty, 

Perish'd and gone, and hasting to decay ; — 

Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty 

Or spite it is to havoc and to slay : 

Too many a lovely race raz'd quite away. 

Hath left large gaps in life and human loving : — 

Here then begin thy cruel war to stay. 

And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving 

Thy desolating hand for our removing." 



liXXXVIII. 



Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry, 

And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck 

Grappling with Time, who clutch'd him like a fly, 

Victim of his own sport, — ^the jester's luck ! 

He, whilst his fellows griev'd, poor wight, had stuck 

His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow, 

And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck ; 

Whereas the angry churl had snatch'd him now, 

Crying, " Thou impish mischief, who art thou ?" 



" Alas !" quoth Puck, " a little random elf. 
Born in the sport of nature, like a weed. 
For simple sweet enjoyment of myself, 
But for no other purpose, worth, or need ; 
And yet withal of a most happy breed ; — 
And there is Robin Goodfellow besides. 
My partner dear in many a prankish deed 
To make dame Laughter hold her jolly sides, 
Like merry mummers twain on holy tides. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 



" 'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork, 

Till e'en the patient man breathes half a curse ; 

We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork, 

And curdling looks with secret straws disperse, 

Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid verse : 

And when an infant's beauty prospers ill, 

We change, some mothers say, the child at nurse ; 

But any graver purpose to fulfil, 

We have not wit enough, and scarce the will. 



" We never let the canker melancholy 

To gather on our faces like a rust. 

But gloss our features with some change of folly, 

Taking life's fabled miseries on trust. 

But only sorrowing when sorrow must : 

We ruminate no sage's solemn cud. 

But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust 

To frisk upon a wind, — "Whereas the flood 

Of tears would turn us into heavy mud. 



" Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature. 

Who gloze her lively universal law. 

As if she had not form'd our cheerful feature 

To be so tickled with the slightest straw ! 

So let them vex their mumping mouths, and draw 

The corners downward, like a wat'ry moon, 

And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw — 

We will not woo foul weather all too soon, 

Or nurse November on the lap of June. 



70 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" For ours are winging sprites, like any bird, 
That shun all stagnant settlements of grief; 
And even in our rest our hearts are stirr'd. 
Like insects settled on a dancing leaf: — 
This is our small philosophy in brief. 
Which thus to teach hath set me all agape : 
But dost thou relish it ? O hoary chief! 
Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape. 
And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape. 



Then Saturn thus : — shaking his crooked blade 
O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash 
In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fray'd ! 
His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash — 
Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash — 
'• Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing ! 
Whom naught can frighten, sadden, or abash, — 
To hope my solemn countenance to wring 
To idiot smiles !— but I will prune thy wing ! 



" Lo ! this most awful handle of my scythe 
Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown. 
Which rustics danc'd around, and maidens blithe, 
To wanton pipings : — but I pluck'd it down. 
And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown. 
Turning her buds to rosemary and rue ; 
And all their merry minstrelsy did drown. 
And laid each lusty leaper in the dew ; — 
So thou shalt fare — and every jovial crew ! " 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 



Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch 
His mortal engine with each grisly hand, 
Which frights the elfin progeny so much. 
They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand 
All round Titania, like the queen bee's band. 
With sighs and tears and very shrieks of woe !- 
Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd. 
To make the stern Shade merciful,— when lo ! 
He drops his fatal scythe without a blow ! 



For, just at need, a timely Apparition 

Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt ; 

Making him change his horrible position. 

To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt, 

That dares Time's irresistible affront. 

Whose strokes have scarr'd even the gods of old ;- 

Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt 

For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold, 

Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold. 



Who, turning to the small assembled fays. 
Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, 
And holds her beauty for a while in gaze, 
With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap ; 
And thence upon the fair moon's silver map, 
As if in question of this magic chance, 
Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap ; 
And then upon old Saturn turns askance. 
Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance : — 



72 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night ! 
Stealthy companions of the downy moth — 
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, 
Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth ; — 
These be the feasters on night's silver cloth, — 
The gnat with shrilly trump is their convener. 
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, 
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
Or dance upon the grass to make it greener. 



" These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs. 

Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — • 

Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours, 

King Oberon, and all his merry crew, 

The darling puppets of romance's view ; 

Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them, 

Famous for patronage of lovers true ; — 

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them. 

So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them." 



O what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made 

The fairies quake. " What care I for their pranks. 

However they may lovers choose to aid. 

Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks ? — 

Long must they dance before they earn my thanks,- 

So step aside, to some far safer spot. 

Whilst with my hungry scythe I mow their ranks, 

And leave them in the sun, like weeds, to rot, 

And with the next day's sun to be forgot." 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 73 



Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen ; 
But still the gracious Shade disarm'd his aim, 
Stepping with brave alacrity between. 
And made his sere arm powerless and tame. 
His be perpetual glory, for the shame 
Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat ! — 
But I must tell, how here Titania came 
With all her kneeling lieges, to entreat 
His kindly succor, in sad tones, but sweet. 



Saying, " Thou seest a wretched queen before thee, 

The fading power of a failing land. 

Who for her kingdom kneeleth to implore thee. 

Now menac'd by this tyrant's spoiling hand ; 

No one but thee can hopefully withstand 

That crooked blade, he longeth so to lift. 

I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand, 

Which only times all ruins by its drift. 

Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. 



" Or take him by that sole and grizzled tuft. 
That hangs upon his bald and barren crown ; 
And we will sing to see him so rebuff'd. 
And lend our little mights to pull him down, 
And make brave sport of his malicious frown. 
For all his boastful mockery o'er men. 
For thou wast born I know for this renown, 
By my most magical and inward ken. 
That readeth ev'n at Fate's forestalling pen. 
5 



74 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye, 
And by thy brow's most fair and ample span, 
Thought's glorious palace, fram'd for fancies high, 
And by thy cheek thus passionately wan, 
I know the signs of an immortal man, — 
Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate, 
Destin'd to foil old Death's oblivious plan. 
And shine untarnish'd by the fogs of Fate, 
Time's famous rival till the final date ! 



" O shield us then from this usurping Time, 
And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams ; 
And teach thee tunes, to wed unto thy rhyme, 
And dance about thee in all midnight gleams. 
Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes. 
Such as no mortal's eye hath ever seen ; 
And, for thy love to us in our extremes. 
Will ever keep thy chaplet fresh and green. 
Such as no poet's wreath hath ever been ! 



" And we'll distil thee aromatic de^ys, 

To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flow'rs ; 

And flavor'd syrops in thy drinks infuse, 

And teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'rs, 

And with our games divert thy weariest hours, 

AVith all that elfin wits can e'er devise. 

And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours 

To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies :" — 

Here she was stopp'd by Saturn's furious cries. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 75 



Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew, 
Saying, " Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and scoop 
Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew, 
Or make th' autumnal flow'rs turn pale, and droop ; 
Or fell the bearded corn, till gleaners stoop 
Under fat sheaves, — or blast the piny grove ; — 
But here thou shalt not harm this pretty groupe, 
Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove, 
But leas'd on Nature's loveliness and love. 



" 'Tis these that free the small entangled fly, 
Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare ;- 
These be the petty surgeons that apply 
The healing balsams to the wounded hare, 
Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care ! — 
These be providers for the orphan brood, 
Whose tender mother hath been slain in air, 
Quitting with gaping bill her darling's food, 
Hard by the verge of her domestic wood. 



" 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag, 
When, with a bursting heart beset with fears, 
He feels his saving speed begin to flag ; 
For then they quench the fatal taint with tears. 
And prompt fresh shifts in his alarum'd ears, 
So piteously they view all bloody morts ; 
Or if the gunner, with his arm, appears, 
Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports, 
They warn the wild fowl of his deadly sports. 



76 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" For these are kindly ministers of nature, 
To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; 
Pretty they be, and very small of stature, — 
For mercy still consorts with littleness ; — 
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less. 
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong ;- 
So do these charitable dwarfs redress 
The tenfold ravages of giants strong, 
To whom great malice and great might belong. 



" Likewise to them are Poets much beholden 
For secret favors in the midnight glooms ; 
Brave Spenser quaff'd out of their goblets golden, 
And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms, 
And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms 
Sounding upon the air most soothing soft. 
Like humming bees busy about the brooms, — 
And glanc'd this fair queen's witchery full oft. 
And in her magic wain soar'd far aloft. 



" Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nurs'd 

By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth. 

And in my childish ear glib Mab rehears'd 

Her breezy travels round our planet's girth. 

Telling me wonders of the moon and earth ; 

My gramarye at her grave lap I conn'd. 

Where Puck hath been conven'd to make me mirth ; 

I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond, . 

And toy'd with Oberon's permitted wand. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 77 



" With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me, 
And delicate cates after my sunset meal, 
And took me by my childish hand, and led me 
By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel. 
Whose awful bases deep dark woods conceal. 
Staining some dead lake with their verdant dyes : 
And when the West sparkled at Phoebus' wheel. 
With fairy euphrasy they purg'd mine eyes, 
To let me see their cities in the skies. 



" 'Twas they first school'd my young imagination 

To take its flights like any new-fledg'd bird. 

And show'd the span of winged meditation 

Stretch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard. 

With sweet swift Ariel how I soar'd and stirr'd 

The fragrant blooms of spiritual bow'rs ! 

'Twas they endear'd what I have still preferr'd. 

Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow'rs. 

Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and flow'rs ! 



" Wherefore with all true loyalty and dutj^ 

Will I regard them in my honoring rhyme. 

With love for love, and homages to beauty, 

And magic thoughts gather'd in night's cool clime. 

With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, 

Strong as old Merlin's necromantic spells ; 

So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime 

Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells. 

Till shrill larks warn them to their flowery cells." 



78 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, 
Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore, 
That sets his horrid features all at rack,— 
So seem'd these words into the ear to pour 
Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar 
Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage. 
Wherewith his grisly arm he rais'd once more, 
And bade the cluster'd sinews all engage. 
As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age. 



Whereas the blade flash'd on the dinted ground, 
Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar 
On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; 
But Time was long benumb'd, and stood ajar 
And then with baffled rage took flight afar, 
To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, 
Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar, 
Or sharp his scythe for royal strokes of doom. 
Whetting its edge on some old Csesar's tomb. 



Howbeit he vanish'd in the forest shade, 
Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard. 
And, like Narcissus, to a sound decay'd ; — 
Meanwhfle the fays cluster'd the gracious Bard, 
The darling centre of their dear regard : 
Besides of sundry dances on the green. 
Never was mortal man so brightly starr'd. 
Or won such pretty homages, I ween. 
"Nod to him. Elves !" cries the melodious queen. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 79 



" Nod to him, Elves, and flutter round about him, 
And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd, 
And touch him lovingly, for that, without him, 
The silk- worm now had spun our dreary shroud :- 
But he hath all dispers'd death's tearful cloud, 
And Time 's dread effigy scar'd quite away : 
Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd, 
And his dear wishes prosper and obey 
Wherever love and wit can find a way ! 



" 'Noint him with fairy dews of magic savors, 
Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet, 
Roses and spicy pinks, — and, of all favors, 
Plant in his walks the purple violet, 
And meadow-sweet under the hedges set, 
To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine 
And honeysuckles sweet, — nor yet forget 
Some pastoral flowery chaplets to entwine. 
To vie the thoughts about his brow benign ! 



" Let no wild things astonish him or fear him, 
But tell them all how mild he is of heart, 
Till e'en the timid hares go frankly near him. 
And eke the dappled does, yet never start ; 
Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart, 
Nor wrens forsake their nests among the leaves, 
Nor speckled thrushes flutter far apart ; — 
But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves, 
To guard his roof from lightning and from thieves. 



80 HOOD'S POEMS. 



'• Or when he goes the nimble squirrel's visitor, 
Let the brown hermit bring his hoarded nuts. 
For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor, — 
Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience shuts, 
For conscious wrong all curious qurst rebuts, — 
Nor yet shall bees uncase their jealous stings, 
However he may watch their straw-built huts : — 
So let him learn the crafts of all small things. 
Which he will hint most aptly when he sings." 



Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand 
Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head ; 
Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, 
Wears still the glon,^ which her waving shed, 
Such as erst crown'd the old Apostle's head, 
To show the thoughts there harbor'd were divine, 
And on immortal contemplations fed : — 
Groodly it was to see that glory shine 
Around a brow so lofty and benign ! 



Goodl}- it was to see the elfin brood 
Contend for kisses of his gentle hand. 
That had their mortal enemy withstood, 
And stay'd their lives, fast ebbing with the sand. 
Long while this strife engag'd the pretty band ; 
But now bold Chanticleer, from farm to farm, 
Challeng'd the dawn creeping o'er eastern land, 
And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm, 
Which sounds the knell of every elfish charm. 



THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 81 



And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise 
From plashy mead and undiscover'd stream, 
Earth 's morning incense to the early skies, 
Crept o'er the failing landscape of my dream. 
Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme — 
A shapeless shade, that fancy disavow'd, 
And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme. 
Then flew Titania, — and her little crowd, 
Like flocking linnets, vanish'd in a cloud. 



5* 



HERO AND LEANPER 

1827. 



TO 

S, T. COLERIDGE, ESQ. 



It is not with a hope my feeble praise 

Can add one moment's honor to thy own, 

That with thy mighty name I grace these lays ; 

I seek to glorify myself alone : 

For that some precious favor thou hast shown 

To my endeavor in a by-gone time, 

And by this token, I would have it known 

Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme ! 

It is my dear ambition now to climb 

Still higher in thy thought, — if my bold pen 

May thrust on contemplations more sublime. — 

But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when 

We gain applauses from the great in name. 

We seem to be partakers of their fame. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 



Oh Bards of old ! what sorrows have ye sung, 
And tragic stories, chronicled in stone, — 
Sad Philomel restor'd her ravish'd tongue. 
And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown ; 
Sweet Sappho on her love for ever calls, 
And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls ! 



Was it that spectacles of sadder plights, 
Should make our blisses relish the more high ? 
Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights, 
Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye, 
Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief, 
Trac'd from the course of an old bas-relief. 



There stands Abydos ! — here is Sestos' steep. 
Hard by the gusty margin of the sea. 
Where sprinkling waves continually do leap ; 
And that is where those famous lovers be, 
A builded gloom shot up into the grey. 
As if the first tall watch-tow'r of the day. 



86 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Lo ! how the lark soars upward and is gone ; 
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky, 
His voice is heard, though body there is none. 
And rain-like music scatters from on high ; 
But Love would follow with a falcon spite, 
To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height. 



For Love hath fram'd a ditty of regrets, 
Tun'd to the hollow sobbings on the shore, 
A vexing sense, that with like music frets. 
And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o'er, 
Saying, Leander's joys are past and spent, 
Like stars extinguish'd in the firmament. 



For ere the golden crevices of morn 

Let in those regal luxuries of light. 

Which all the variable east adorn, 

And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night, 

Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side. 

Must leave a widow where he found a bride. 



Hark ! how the billows beat upon the sand ! 
Like pawing steeds impatient of delay ; 
Meanwhile their rider, ling'ring on the land, 
Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay 
A too short span. — How tedious slow is grief! 
But parting renders time both sad and brief. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 87 



" Alas (he sigh'd), that this first glimpsing light, 

Which makes the wide world tenderly appear, 

Should be the burning signal for my flight, 

From all the world's best image, which is here ; 

Whose very shadow, in my fond compare, 

Shines far more bright than Beauty's self elsewhere.^' 



Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark, 
Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale, 
And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark, 
All dim and tarnish'd with a dreary veil, 
No more to kindle till the night's return, 
Like stars replenish'd at Joy's golden urn. 



Ev'n thus they creep into the spectral grey, 
That cramps the landscape in its narrow brim, 
As when two shadows by old Lethe stray. 
He clasping her, and she entwining him ; 
Like trees wind-parted that embrace anon, 
True love so often goes before 'tis gone. 



For what rich merchant but will pause in fear. 
To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss ? 
So Hero dotes upon her treasure here, 
And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss. 
Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, 
Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread. 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



She thinks how many have been sunk and drown'd, 
And spies their snow-white bones below the deep, 
Then calls huge congregated monsters round, 
- And plants a rock wherever he would leap ; 
Anon she dwells on a fantastic dream, 
Which she interprets of that fatal stream. 



XIII. 

Saying, " That honey'd fly 1 saw was thee, 
Which lighted on a water-lily's cup, 
When, lo ! the flow'r, enamor'd of my bee, 
Closed on him suddenly and lock'd him up. 
And he was smother'd in her drenching dew ; 
Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue." 



But next, remembering her virgin fame. 

She clips him in her arms and bids him go. 

But seeing him break loose, repents her shame 

And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow ; 

And tears unfix her iced resolve again. 

As steadfast frosts are thaw'd by show'rs of rain. 



O for a type of parting ! — Love to love 
Is like the fond attraction of two spheres, 
Which needs a godlike effort to remove, 
And then sink down their sunny atmospheres, 
In rain and darkness on each ruin'd heart. 
Nor yet their melodies will sound apart. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 89 



So brave Leander sunders from his bride ; 

The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain ; 

Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide, — 

And life must ache, until they join again. 

Now would'st thou know the wideness of the wound, 

Mete every step he takes upon the ground. 



And for the agony and bosom-throe, 

Let it be measur'd by the wide vast air, 

For that is infinite, and so is woe, 

Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere. 

Look how it heaves Leander's laboring chest, 

Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest ! 



From which he leaps into the scooping brine, 
That shocks his bosom with a double chill ; 
Because, all hours, till the slow sun's decline, 
That cold divorcer will betwixt them still ; 
Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide. 
Where life grows death upon the other side. 



Then sadly he confronts his two-fold toil 
Against rude waves and an unwilling mind, 
Wishing, alas ! with the stout rower's toil, 
That like a rower he might gaze behind, 
And watch that lonely statue he hath left 
On her bleak summit, weeping and bereft ! 



90 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Yet turning oft, he sees her troubled locks 
Pursue him still the farthest that they may ; 
Her marble arms that overstretch the rocks, 
And her pale passion'd hands that seem to pray 
Jn dumb petition to the gods above : 
Love prays devoutly when it prays for love ! 



Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave, 
That hangs superfluous tears upon his cheek. 
And bans his labor like a hopeless slave. 
That, chain'd in hostile galley, faint and weak, 
Plies on despairing through the restless foam. 
Thoughtful of his lost love, and far-off home. 



The drowsy mist before him chill and dark, 
Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea. 
Where he rows on against the utter blank, 
Steering as if to dim eternity, — 
Like Love's frail ghost departing with the dawn ; 
A failing shadow in the twilight drawn. 



And soon is gone, — or nothing but a faint 
And failing image in the eye of thought. 
That mocks his model with an after-paint. 
And stains an atom like the paint he sought ; 
Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee, 
The old and hoary majesty of sea. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 91 



" O King of waves, and brother of high Jove, 
Preserve my sumless venture there afloat ; 
A woman's heart, and its whole weahh of love, 
Are all embark'd upon that little boat ; 
Nay, but two loves, two lives, a double fate, 
A perilous voyage for so dear a freight. 



" If impious mariners be stain'd with crime, 
Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks ; 
Lay by thy storms until another time. 
Lest my frail bark be dash'd against the rocks : 
O rather smoothe thy deeps, that he may fly 
Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky ! 



" Let all thy herded monsters sleep beneath. 

Nor gore him with crook'd tusks, or wreathed horns ; 

Let no fierce sharks destroy him with their teeth, 

Nor spine-fish wound him with their venom'd thorns ; 

But if he faint, and timely succor lack. 

Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back. 



" Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in. 
Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath ; 
Let no jagg'd corals tear his tender skin. 
Nor mountain billows bury him in death ;" — 
And with that thought forestalling her own fears, 
She drown'd his painted image in her tears. 



92 HOOD'S POEMS. 



XXVIIJ. 

By this, the climbing sun, with rest repair'd, 
Look'd through the gold embrasures of the sky, 
And ask'd the drowsy world how she had far'd ;- 
The drowsy world shone brighten'd in reply ; 
And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam 
Spied young Leander in the middle stream. 



His face was pallid, but the hectic morn, 
Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, 
And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn ; 
So death lies ambush'd in consumptive streaks ; 
But inward grief was wiithing o'er its task. 
As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask. 



He thought of Hero and the lost delight. 
Her last embracings, and the space between ; 
He thought of Hero and the future night, 
Her speechless rapture and enamor'd mien, 
When, lo ! before him, scarce two galleys' space, 
His thought 's confronted with another face ! 



Her aspect 's like a moon divinely fair. 
But makes the midnight darker that it lies on ; 
'Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair 
That densely skirts her luminous horizon, 
Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set. 
As marble lies advantag'd upon jet. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 93 



She 's all too bright, too argent, and too pale, 

To be a woman ; — but a woman's double, 

Reflected on the wave so faint and frail. 

She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble ; 

Or dim creation of a morning dream, 

Fair as the wave-bleach'd lily of the stream. 



The very rumor strikes his seeing dead : 
Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense 
He knows not if her lips be blue or red. 
Nor of her eyes can give true evidence : 
Like murder's witness swooning in the court, 
His sight falls senseless by its own report. 



Anon resuming, it declares her eyes 

Are tinct with azure, like two crystal wells 

That drink the blue complexion of the skies. 

Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells : 

Her polish'd brow, it is an ample plain, 

To lodge vast contemplations of the main. 



Her lips might corals seem, but corals near. 
Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower ; 
And o'er the weaker red still domineer, 
And make it pale by tribute to more power ; 
Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue, 
Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue. 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



Thus he beholds her rocking on the water ; 
Under the glossy umbrage of her hair, 
Like pearly Amphitrite's fairest daughter, 
Naiad, or Nereid, — or Syren fair, 
Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, 
A nightingale within a falcon's nest. 



They say there be such maidens in the deep, 
Charming poor mariners, that all too near 
By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep. 
As drowsy men are poison'd through the ear ; 
Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge. 
This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge. 



At which he falls into a deadly chill. 
And strains his eyes upon her lips apart ; 
Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill, 
Pierce through his marrow, like a breath-blown dart 
Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane, 
With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain. 



Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd 
A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space ; 
There seem'd so brief a pause of life allow 'd. 
His mind stretch'd universal, to embrace 
The whole wide world, in an extreme farewell, — 
A moment's musing — but an age to tell. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 95 



For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, 

The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact, 

Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and wither'd countenance, 

A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd ; 

Time's tragic consequents ere time began, 

A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span. 



A moment's thinking is an hour in words. — 
An hour of words is little for some woes ; 
Too little breathing a long life affords. 
For love to paint itself by perfect shows ; 
Then let his love and grief unwrong'd lie dumb, 
Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come. 



As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape, 
Struck pale and panick'd by the billows' roar. 
Lay by all timely measures of escape, 
And let their bark go driving on the shore ; 
So fray'd Leander, drifting to his wreck. 
Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck. 



For he hath all forgot the swimmer's art, 
The rower's cunning, and the pilot's skill, 
Letting his arms fall down in languid part, 
Sway'd by the waves, and nothing by his will. 
Till soon he jars against that glossy skin, 
Solid like glass, though seemingly as thin. 



96 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Lo ! how she startles at the warning shock, 
And straightway girds him to her radiant breast, 
More like his safe smooth harbor than his rock ; 
Poor wretch, he is so faint and toil-opprest, 
He cannot loose him from his grappling foe, 
Whether for love or hate, she lets not go. 



His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine. 

His ears are deafen'd with the wildering noise ; 

He asks the purpose of her fell design. 

But foamy waves choke up his struggling voice ; 

Under the ponderous sea his body dips. 

And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips. 



Look how a man is lower'd to his grave ; 
A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap ; 
So he is sunk into the yawning wave. 
The plunging sea fills up the watery gap ; 
Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen. 
But likeness of green turf and hillocks green. 



And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, 
Over the verdant plain that makes his bed ; 
And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping, 
Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead ; 
The light in vain keeps looking for his face. 
Now screaming sea-fowl settle in his place. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 97 



Yet weep and watch for him though all in vain ! 
Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander ! 
Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again ! 
Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander ! 
Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape, 
Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape ! 



She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed, 
The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her, 
O bootless theft ! unprofitable meed ! 
Love's treasury is sack'd, but she no richer ; 
The sparkles of his eyes are cold and dead, 
And all his golden locks are turn'd to lead ! 



She holds the casket, but her simple hand 
Hath spill'd its dearest jewel by the way ; 
She hath life's empty garment at command, 
But her own death lies covert in the prey ; 
As if a thief should steal a tainted vest, 
Some dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest. 



Now she compels him to her deeps below. 

Hiding his face beneath her plenteous hair. 

Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, 

For dread of envy, though no eyes are there 

But seals', and all brute tenants of the deep. 

Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep. 

6 



HOOD'S POEMS. 



Down and still downward through the dusky green 

She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste 

In too rash ignorance, as he had been 

Born to the texture of that watery waste ; 

That which she breath'd and sigh'd, the emerald wave, 

How could her pleasant home become his grave ! 



Down and still downward through the dusky green 
She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh 
To mark how life was alter'd in its mien. 
Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, 
Or how his pearly breath unprison'd there. 
Flew up to join the universal air. 



She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, 
Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy ; 
She could not guess he struggled to depart, 
And when he strove no more, the hapless boy ! 
She read his mortal stillness for content, 
Feeling no fear where only love was meant. 



Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor, 

And straight unyokes her arms from her fair prize ; 

Then on his lovely face begins to pore. 

As if to glut her soul ; — her hungry eyes 

Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight; 

It seems, she hath no other sense but sight. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 99 



But O sad marvel ! most bitter strange ! 
What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale, 
Why will he not embrace, — why not exchange 
Her kindly kisses ; — wherefore not exhale 
Some odorous message from life's ruby gates, 
Where she his first sweet embassy awaits 1 



Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks, 
Are grappled with a wonder near to grief, 
As one, who pores on undecipher'd books. 
Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief j 
So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought. 
Framing a thousand doubts that end in naught. 



Too stern inscription for a page so young. 
The dark translation of his look was death ! 
But death was written in an alien tongue, 
And learning was not by to give it breath ; 
So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal. 
Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal. 



Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, 
Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there 
With heavy head lies pillow'd in her lap. 
And elbows all unhinged ; — his sleeking hair 
Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand 
Leans with lax fingers crook'd against the sand ; 



100 . HOOD'S POEMS. 



And there lies spread in many an oozy trail, 
Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base, 
That shows no whiter than his brow is pale ; 
So soon the wintry death had bleach'd his face 
Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades, 
Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades. 



And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow' d pain 
Hath set, and stiffen'd like a storm in ice. 
Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain 
Of mortal anguish ; — yet you might gaze twice 
Ere Death it seem'd, and not his cousin. Sleep, 
That through those creviced lids did underpeep. 



But all that tender bloom about his eyes. 

Is Death's own vi'lets, which his utmost rite 

It is to scatter when the red rose dies ; 

For blue, is chilly, and akin to white : 

Also he leaves some tinges on his lips. 

Which he hath kiss'd with such cold frosty nips. 



"Surely," quoth she, "he sleeps, the senseless thing, 
XDppress'd and faint with toiling in the stream !" 
Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing 
So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream ; 
Meanwhile, her lily fingers tasks to twine 
His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine. 



HERO AND LEANDER. loi 



" O lovely boy !" — thus she attun'd her voice, — 
" Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home, 
My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice ; 
How have I long'd such a twin-self should come, — 
A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befel. 
My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell. 



" Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome, 

An ocean-bow 'r ; defended by the shade 

Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom 

To lap thee all about. Nay, be not fray'd, 

Those are but shady fishes that sail by 

Like antic clouds across my liquid sky ! 



" Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales, 
And shows rich glimpses of their Tyrian skins, 
They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails, 
And winking stars are kindled at their fins ; 
These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood, 
And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food. 

liXVII. 

•' Lo ! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, 
My flow'rets those, that never pine for drowth ; 
Myself did plant them in the dappled shells. 
That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth, — 
Pearls wouldst thou have beside ? crystals to shine ? 
I had such treasures once, — now they are thine. 



102 HOOD'S POEMS. 



^^ Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand, 
And thou shalt hear the music of the sea, 
Those hollow tunes it plays against the land,— 
Is 't not a rich and wondrous melody ? 
I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone 
I heard the languages of ages gone ! 



" I too can sing when it shall please thy choice, 
And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell, 
Though heretofore I have but set my voice 
To some long sighs, grief harmonized, to tell 
How desolate I fared ; — but this sweet change 
Will add new notes of gladness to my range ! 



" Or bid me speak, and I will tell thee tales, 
Which I have framed out of the noise of waves ; 
Ere now, I have commun'd with senseless gales. 
And held vain colloquies with barren caves ; 
But I could talk to thee whole days and days, 
Only to word my love a thousand ways. 



" But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, 

Then ope, sweet oracles ! and I'll be mute ; 

I was born ignorant for thee to teach, 

Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute ; 

Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light 

I saw to give away my heart aright !" 



HERO AND LEANDER. 103 



But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies, 
Over her knees, and with concealing clay. 
Like hoarding Avarice locks up his eyes. 
And leaves her world impoverish'd of day ; 
Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead. 
But there the door is closed aa;ainst her need. 



Surely he sleeps, — so her false wits infer ! 
Alas ! poor sluggard, ne'er, to wake again ! 
Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir 
That might denote a vision in his brain ; 
Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, 
Twice she hath reach'd the ending of her son^ 



Therefore 'tis time she tells him to uncover 
Those radiant jesters, and disperse her fears, 
Whereby her April face is shaded over. 
Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears ; 
Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets. 
Herself must rob those lock'd up cabinets. 



With that she stoops above his brow, and bids 
Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair. 
And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids. 
That she might gaze upon the jewels there, 
Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, 
To know the dainty color of its heart. 



104 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Now, picture one, soft creeping to a bed, 
Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies. 
And then starts back to find the sleeper dead ; 
So she looks in on his uncover'd eyes. 
And seeing all within so drear and dark. 
Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark. 



Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, 
Under the swoon of holy divination : 
And what had all surpass'd her simple guess, 
She now resolves in this dark revelation ; 
Death's very mystery, — oblivious death ; — 
Long sleep, — deep night, and an entranced breath. 



Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain, 
Merely obscur'd, and not extinguish'd, lies ; 
Her breath that stood at ebb, soon flows again. 
Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs. 
And light comes in and kindles up the gloom. 
To light her spirit from its transient tomb. 



Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn, 
With pale bewilder'd face she peers about. 
And spies blurr'd images obscurely drawn, 
Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt ; 
But her true grief grows shapely by degrees, 
A perish'd creature lying on her knees. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 105 



And now she knows how that old Murther preys, 
Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain : 
How he roams all abroad and grimly slays, 
Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain ; 
Parting fond mates, — and oft in flowery lawns 
Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns. 



O too dear knowledge ! O pernicious earning ! 
Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page ! 
Ev'n now the sorrow of that deadly learning 
Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age. 
And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth, 
By canker blights upon the bud of youth ! 



For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf, 
So her cheeks' rose is perish'd by her sighs, 
And withers in the sickly breath of grief; 
Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes. 
Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt 
From those young lids, now plentifully wept. 



Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline 
Drops straightway down, refusing to partake 
In gross admixture with the baser brine, 
But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque. 
Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears ; 
So one maid's trophy is another's tears ! 
6* 



106 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" O foul Arch-Shadow, thou old cloud of Night 
(Thus in her frenzy she began to wail), 
Thou blank oblivion — blotter out of light, 
Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale ! 
Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete. 
Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet ? 



" Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made, 
Alas ! alas ! thou hast no eyes to see. 
And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade. 
Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! 
But now I turn to thee, a willing mark. 
Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark ! 



" O doubly cruel ! — twice misdoing spite. 

But I will guide thee with my helping eyes, 

Or walk the wide world through, devoid of sight, 

Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs. 

Nay, then thou should'st have spared my rose, false Death, 

And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath ; 



" Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing, 
Love should have grown from touching of his skin, 
But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. 
And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within. 
And being but a shape of freezing bone. 
Thy touching only turned my love to stone ! 



HERO AND LEANDER. 107 

liXXXVIIT. 

" And here, alas ! he lies across my knees, 
With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave, 
The light beneath his eyelids seems to freeze, 
Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave, 
O come and dig it in my sad heart's core — 
That wound will bring a balsam for its sore ! 



" For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill, 
Lies stingless, like a sense benumb'd with cold, 
Healing all hurts only with sleep's good- will. 
So shall I slumber, and perchance behold 
My living love in dreams, — happy night, 
That lets me company his banish'd spright ! 



" O poppy Death ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ! 
Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug, 
That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep 
Gut of life's coil. Look, Idol ! how I hug 
Thy dainty image in this strict embrace. 
And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face ! 



" Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, 
I do but read my sorrows by their shine, 
O come and quench them with thy oozy damps, 
And let my darkness intermix with thine ; 
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I s6e 
Now love is death, — death will be love to me ! 



108 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" Away, away, this vain complaining breath. 
It does but stir the troubles that I weep, 
Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death, 
The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,- 
Since love is silent, I would fain be mute, 
O Death, be gracious to my dying suit ! " 



Thus far she pleads, but pleading naught avails her, 
For Death, her sullen burthen, deigns no heed. 
Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails her, 
She prays to heav'n's fair light, as if her need 
Inspir'd her there were Gods to pity pain. 
Or end it, — but she lifts her arms in vain ! 



Poor gilded Grief ! the subtle light by this 
With mazy gold creeps through her watery mine, 
And, diving downward through the green abyss, 
Lights up her palace with an amber shine ; 
There, falling on her arms, — the crystal skin 
Reveals the rubv tide that fares within. 



Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory 
On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it ; 
Look how the perjur'd glow suborns a story 
On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it ; 
Grief will not swerve from grief, however told 
On coral lips, or character'd in gold ; 



HERO AND LEANDER. 109 



XCVI. 

Or else, thou maid ! safe anchor'd on Love's neck, 
Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, 
Thou would'st not shed a tear for that old wreck, 
Sitting secure where no wild surges wander ; 
Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, 
And shows its sad reflection in thy face. 



Thus having travell'd on, and track'd the tale, 
Like the due course of an old bas-relief, 
Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale, 
Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid's grief. 
And take a deeper imprint from the frieze 
Of that young Fate, with Death upon her knees. 



Then whilst the melancholy muse withal 
Resumes her music in a sadder tone. 
Meanwhile, the sunbeam strikes upon the wall. 
Conceive that lovely siren to live on, 
Ev'n as Hope whisper'd, the Promethean light 
Would kindle up the dead Leander's spright. 



" 'Tis light," she says, " that feeds the glittering stars, 
And those were stars set in his heavenly brow. 
But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapor, mars 
Their radiant breathing, and obscures them now, 
Therefore I '11 lay him in the clear blue air. 
And see how these dull orbs will kindle there." 



110 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet. 
With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold. 
She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net, 
The sun hath twin'd above of liquid gold, 
Nor slacks, till on the margin of the land, 
She lays his body on the glowing sand. 



There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach 
Of foamy billows he lies cast. Just then. 
Some listless fishers, straying dov/n the beach, 
Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, 
Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, 
And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache. 



First she begins to chafe him till she faints. 
Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many, 
And sometimes pauses in her own complaints 
To list his breathing, but there is not any, — 
Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells, 
Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells. 



The hot sun parches his discover'd eyes. 

The hot sun beats on his discolor'd limbs. 

The sand is oozy whereupon he lies, 

Soiling his fairness ; — then away she swims, 

Meaning to gather him a daintier bed. 

Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red. 



BERO AND LEANDER. Ill 



But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under, 
Another robs her of her amorous theft ; 
The ambush'd fishermen creep forth to plunder 
And steal the unwatch'd treasure she has left ; 
Only his void impre,ssion dints the sands ; 
Leander is purloin'd by stealthy hands ! 



Lo ! how she shudders off the beaded wave ! 
Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls, 
His void imprint seems hollow 'd for her grave, 
Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls 
On Hero ! Hero ! having learn'd this name 
Of his last breath, she calls him by the same. 



Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs, 
And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind, 
As if in plucking those she pluck'd her cares ; 
But grief lies deeper, and remains behind 
Like a barb'd arrow, rankling in her brain, 
Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain. 



Anon her tangled locks are left alone, 
And down upon the sand she meekly sits. 
Hard by the foam as humble as a stone. 
Like an enchanted maid beside her wits. 
That ponders with a look serene and tragic, 
Stunn'd by the mighty mystery of magic. 



112 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Or think of Ariadne's utter trance, 

Craz'd by the flight of that disloyal traitor, 

Who left her gazing on the green expanse 

That swallow'd up his track, — yet this would mate her, 

Ev'n in the cloudy summit of her woe. 

When o'er the far sea-brim she saw him go. 



For even so she bows, and bends her gaze 

O'er the eternal waste, as if to sum 

Its waves by weary thousands all her days. 

Dismally dbom'd ! meanwhile the billows come, 

And coldly dabble with her quiet feet. 

Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet. 



And thence into her lap have boldly sprung. 

Washing her weedy tresses to and fro, 

That round her crouching knees have darkly hung, 

But she sits careless of waves' ebb and flow. 

Like a lone beacon on a desert coast, 

Showing where all her hope was wreck'd and lost. 



Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky, 
She knoweth not her love's abrupt resort. 
So like a shape of dreams he left her eye. 
Winking with doubt. Meanwhile, the churl's report 
Has throng'd the beach with many a curious face, 
That peeps upon her from its hiding-place. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 113 



CXII. 



And here a head, and there a brow half seen, 

Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands, 

A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean 

Over a rugged crest. Another stands, 

Holding his harmful arrow at the head, 

Still check'd by human caution and strange dread. 



One stops his ears, — another close beholder 

Whispers unto the next his grave surmise ; 

This crouches down, — and just above his shoulder, 

A woman's pity saddens in her eyes. 

And prompts her to befriend that lonely grief, 

With all sweet helps of sisterly relief. 



And down the sunny beach she paces slowly, 
With many doubtful pauses by the way ; 
Grief hath an influence so hush'd and holy, — 
Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay 
Her hand upon that sea-maid's shoulder white, 
Which makes her startle up in wild aifright. 

CXV. 

And, like a seal, she leaps into the wave 
That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream ; 
Anon the sea fills up the watery cave, 
And seals her exit with a foamy seam, — 
Leaving those baffled gazers on the beach, 
Turnmg in uncouth wonder each to each. 



114 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Some watch- some call, some see her head emerge, 
Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam ; 
Some point to white eruptions of the surge : — 
But she is vanished to her shady home, 
Under the deep, inscrutable, — and there 
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair. 



Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard, 
Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow, 
Till all the surface of the deep is stirr'd. 
Like to the panting grief it hides below ; 
And heav'n is cover'd with a stormy rack, 
Soiling the waters with its inky black. 



The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, 
And labors shoreward with a bending wing. 
Rowing against the wind her toilsome way ; 
Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling 
Their dewy frost still further on the stones. 
That answer to the wind with hollow groans. 



And here and there a fisher's far-off bark 
Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail. 
Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, 
Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale j 
And anxious mothers that upturn their brows. 
Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows. 



HERO AND LEANDER. 115 



For that the horrid deep has no sure track 
To guide love safe into his homely haven. 
And lo ! the storm grows blacker in its wrath, 
O'er the dark billow brooding like a raven, 
That bodes of death and widow's sorrowing. 
Under the dusky covert of his wing. 



And so day ended. But no vesper spark 
Hung forth its heavenly sign ; but sheets of flame 
Play'd round the savage features of the dark, 
Making night horrible. That night, there came 
A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep. 
And tore her hair and gaz'd upon the deep. 



And wav'd aloft her bright and ruddy torch. 
Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd, 
That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch 
The tender covert of her sheltering hand ; 
Which yet, for love's dear sake, disdain'd retire, 
And, like a glorying martyr, brav'd the fire. 



For that was love's own sign and beacon guide 
Across the Hellespont's wide weary space. 
Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide ; 
Look what a red it forges on her face. 
As if she blush'd at holding such a light, 
Ev'n in the unseen presence of the night ' 



116 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pale, 

And colder than the rude and ruffian air 

That howls into her ear a horrid tale 

Of storm, and wreck, and uttermost despair, 

Saying, " Leander floats amid the surge, 

And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge." 



And hark ! — a grieving voice, trembling and faint, 
Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea ; 
Like the sad music of a siren's plaint, 
But shriller than Leander's voice should be, 
Unless the wintry death had changed its tone, — 
Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan. 



For now, upon each brief and breathless pausCj 
Made by the raging winds, it plainly calls. 
On Hero ! Hero ! — whereupon she draws 
Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals 
Her brave and constant spirit to recoil, 
However the wild billows toss and toil. 



" Oh ! dost thou live under the deep, deep sea ? 
I thought such love as thine could never die ; 
If thou hast gain'd an immortality. 
From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I ; 
And this false cruel tide that used to sever 
Our hearts, shall be our common home for ever ! 



HERO AND LEANDER. 117 



" There we will sit and sport upon one billow, 
And sing our ocean ditties all the day, 
And lie together on the same green pillow, 
That curls above us with its dewy spray ; 
And ever in one presence live and dwell. 
Like two twin pearls within the selfsame shell. 



One moment then, upon the dizzy verge 

She stands ; — with face upturn'd against the sky ; 

A moment more, upon the foamy surge 

She gazes, with a calm despairing eye ; 

Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath 

Which life endures when it confronts with death ;• 



Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, 

Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept 

Panting abroad, like unavailing wings. 

To save her from her death. — The sea-maid wept, 

And in a crystal cave her cross enshrin'd, 

No meaner sepulchre should Hero find ! 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 



1827. 



J. H. REYNOLDS, ESQ. 



My dear Reynolds, 

You will remember " Lycus." — It was written in the pleasant spring- 
time of our friendship, and I am glad to maintain that association, by con- 
necting your name with the Poem, It will gratify me to find that you 
regard it with the old partiality for the writings of each other, which 
prevailed in those days. For my own sake, I must regret that your pen 
goes now into far other records than those which used to delight me 

Your true Friend and Brother, 

T. HOOD. 



LTCUS, THE CENTAUB 



FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CTJRIUS. 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water 
Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorce- 
ress. Circe gives her an incantation to pronounce, which should turn 
Lycus into a horse ; but the horrible effect of the charm causing her to 
break off in the midst, he becomes a Centaur. 

Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell 

To wander, fore-doom'd, in that circle of hell 

Where Witchery works with her will like a god, 

Works more than the wonders of time at a nod, — 

At a word, — at a touch, — at a flash of the eye. 

But each form is a cheat, and each sound is a lie, 

Things born of a wish — to endure for a thought, 

Or last for long ages — to vanish to naught. 

Or put on new semblance ? O Jove, I had given 

The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven, 

And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether 

They kept the world's birth-day and brighten'd together ! 

For I lov'd them in terror and constantly dreaded 

That the earth where I trod, and the cave where I bedded, 

The face I might dote on, should live out the lease 

Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease : 

7 



122 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And I gave me to slumber, as if from one dream 

To another — each horrid — and drank of the stream 

Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quafF'd 

Swift poison, and never should breathe from the draught, — 

Such drink as her own monarch husband drain'd up 

When he pledg'd her, and Fate clos'd his eyes in the cup. 

And I pluck'd of the fruit with held breath, and a fear 

That the branch would start back and scream out in my ear ; 

For once, at my suppering, I pluck'd in the dusk 

An apple, juice-gushing and fragrant of musk ; 

But by daylight my fingers were crimson'd with gore, 

And the half-eaten fragment was flesh at the core ; 

And once — only once — for the love of its blush, 

I broke a bloom bough, but there came such a gush 

On my hand, that it fainted away in weak fright. 

While the leaf-hidden woodpecker shriek'd at the sight ; 

And oh ! such an agony thrill'd in that note. 

That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat, 

As it long'd to be free of a body whose hand 

Was doom'd to work torments a Fury had plann'd ! 

There I stood without stir, yet how willing to flee, 
As if rooted and horror-turn'd into a tree, — 
Oh ! for innocent death, — and to suddenly win it, 
I drank of the stream, but no poison was in it ; 
I plung'd in its waters, but ere I could sink. 
Some invisible fate pull'd me back to the brink ; 
I sprang from the rock, from its pinnacle height. 
But fell on the grass with a grasshopper's flight ; 
I ran at my fears — they were fears and no more. 
For the bear would not mangle my limbs, nor the boar, 
But moan'd, — all their brutaliz'd flesh could not smother ' 
The horrible truth, — we were kin to each other ! 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 123 

They were mournfully gentle, and group 'd for relief 
All foes in their skin, but all friends in their grief: 
The leopard was there, — baby-mild in its feature ; 
And the tiger, black barr'd, with the gaze of a creature 
That knew gentle pity ; the bristle-back'd boar. 
His innocent tusks stain'd with mulberry gore ; 
And the laughing hyena — but laughing no more ; 
And the snake, not with magical orbs to devise 
Strange death, but with woman's attraction of eyes ; 
The tall ugly ape, that still bore a dim shine 
Through his hairy eclipse of a manhood divine ; 
And the elephant stately, with more than its reason, 
How thoughtful in sadness ! but this is no season 
To reckon them up from the lag-bellied toad 
To the mammoth, whose sobs shook his ponderous load. 
There were woes of all shapes, wretched forms, when I came, 
That hung down their heads with a human-like shame ; 
The elephant hid in the boughs, and the bear 
Shed over his eyes the dark veil of his hair ; 
And the womanly soul turning sick with disgust. 
Tried to vomit herself from her serpentine crust ; 
While all groaned their groans into one at their lot, 
As 1 brought them the image of what they were not. 

Then rose a wild sound of the human voice choking 
Through vile brutal organs — low tremulous croaking ; 
Cries swallow 'd abruptly — deep animal tones 
Attun'd to strange passion, and full utter'd groans ; 
All shuddering weaker, till hush'd in a pause 
Of tongues in mute motion and wide-yearning jaws ; 
And I guess'd that those horrors were meant to tell o'er 
The tale of their woes ; but the silence told more 
That writhed on their tongues ; and I knelt on the sod, 



124 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And pray'd with my voice to the cloud-stirring God, 

For the sad congregation of supplicants there, 

That upturn'd to his heaven brute faces of prayer ; 

And I ceased, and they utter'd a moaning so deep 

That I wept for my heart-ease — but they could not weep, 

And gazed with red eye-balls, all wistfully dry. 

At the comfort of tears in a stag's human eye. 

Then I motion'd them round, and, to soothe their distress, 

I caress'd, and they bent them to meet my caress. 

Their necks to my arm, and their heads to my palm, 

And with poor grateful eyes suffered meekly and calm 

Those tokens of kindness, withheld by hard fate 

From returns that might chill the warm pity to hate ; 

So they passively bow'd — save the serpent, that leapt 

To my breast like a sister, and pressingly crept 

In embrace of my neck, and with close kisses blister'd 

My lips in rash love, — then drew backward, and glister'd 

Her eyes in my face, and loud hissing affright, 

Dropt down, and swift started away from my sight ! 

This sorrow was theirs, but thrice wretched my lot, 
Turn'd brute in my soul, though my body was not, 
"When I fled from the sorrow of womanly faces. 
That shrouded their woe in the shade of lone places, 
And dash'd off bright tears, till their fingers were wet. 
And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet : 
But I fled — though they stretch'd out their hands, all entangled 
With hair, and blood-stain'd of the breasts they had mangled, — 
Though they call'd — and perchance but to ask, had I seen 
Their loves, or to tell the vile wrongs that had been : 
But I stay'd not to hear, lest the story should hold 
Some hell-form of words, some enchantment once told. 
Might translate me in flesh to a brute ; and I dreaded 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 125 

To gaze on their charms, lest my faith should be wedded 
With some pity, — and love in that pity perchance — 
To a thing not all lovely; for once at a glance 
Methought, where one sat, I descried a bright wonder 
That flow'd like a long silver rivulet under 
The long fenny grass, with so lovely a breast, 
Could it be a snake-tail made the charm of the rest ? 

So I roam'd in that circle of horrors, and Fear 
Walk'd with me, by hills, and in valleys, and near 
Cluster'd trees for their gloom — not to shelter from heat — 
But lest a brute-shadow should grow at my feet ; 
And besides that full oft in the sunshiny place, 
Dark shadows would gather like clouds on its face, 
In the horrible likeness of demons (that none 
Could see, like invisible flames in the sun) ; 
But grew to one monster that seized on the light, 
Like the dragon that strangles the moon in the night ; 
Fierce sphinxes, long serpents, and asps of the South ; 
Wild birds of huge beak, and all horrors that drouth 
Engenders of slime in the land of the pest, 
Vile shapes without shape, and foul bats of the West, 
Bringing Night on their wings ; and the bodies wherein 
Great Brahma imprisons the spirits of sin. 
Many-handed, that blent in one phantom of fight 
Like a Titan, and threatfully warr'd with the light ; 
I have heard the wild shriek that gave signal to close, 
When they rush'd on that shadowy Python of foes. 
That met with sharp beaks and wide gaping of jaws. 
With flappings of wings, and fierce grasping of claws. 
And whirls of long tails : — I have seen the quick flutter 
Of fragments dissever'd, — and necks stretch'd to utter 
Long screamings of pain, — the swift motion of blows, 



126 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And wrestling of arms — to the flight at the close, 
When the dust of the earth startled upward in rings, 
And flew on the whirlwind that follow'd their wings. 

Thus they fled — not forgotten — but often to grow 
Like fears in my eyes, when I walk'd to and fro 
In the shadows, and felt from some beings unseen 
The warm touch of kisses, but clean or unclean 
I knew not, nor whether the love I had won 
Was of heaven or hell — till one day in the sun, 
In its very noon-blaze, I could fancy a thing 
Of beauty, but faint as the cloud-mirrors fling 
On the gaze of the shepherd that watches the sky, 
Half-seen and half-dream'd in the soul of his eye. 
And when in my musings I gaz'd on the stream, 
In motionless trances of thought, there would seem 
A face like that face, looking upward through mine ; 
With its eyes full of love, and the dim-drowned shine 
Of limbs and fair garments, like clouds in that blue 
Serene : — there I stood for long hours but to view 
Those fond earnest eyes that were ever uplifted 
Towards me, and wink'd as the water-weed drifted 
Between ; but the fish knew that presence, and plied 
Their long curvy tails, and swift darted aside. 

There I gazed for lost time, and forgot all the things 
That once had been wonders — the fishes with wings, 
And the glimmer of magnified eyes that look'd up 
From the glooms of the bottom like pearls in a cup. 
And the huge endless serpent of silvery gleam, 
Slow winding along like a tide in the stream. 
Some maid of the waters, some Naiad, methought 
Held me dear in the pearl of her eye — and I brought 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 127 

My wish to that fancy ; and often I dash'd 
My limbs in the water, and suddenly splash'd 
The cool drops around me, yet clung to the brink, 
Chiird by watery fears, how that Beauty might sink 
With my life in her arms to her garden, and bind me 
With its long tangled grasses, or cruelly wind me 
In some eddy to hum out my life in her ear, 
Like a spider-caught bee, — and in aid of that fear 
Came the tardy remembrance — Oh falsest of men ! 
Why was not that beauty remember'd till then ? 
My love, my safe love, whose glad life would have run 
Into mine — like a drop — that our fate might be one. 
That now, even now, — may-be, — clasp'd in a dream, 
That form which I gave to some jilt of the stream. 
And gaz'd with fond eyes that her tears tried to smother 
On a mock of those eyes that I gave to another ! 

Then I rose from the stream, but the eyes of my mind, 
Still full of the tempter, kept gazing behind 
On her crystalline face, while I painfully leapt 
To the bank, and shook off the curst waters, and wept 
With my brow in the reeds ; and the reeds to my ear 
Bow'd, bent by no wind, and in whispers of fear, 
Growing small with large secrets, foretold me of one 
That loved me, — but oh to fly from her, and shun 
Her love like a pest — though her love was as true 
To mine as her stream to the heavenly blue ; 
For why should I love her with love that would bring 
All misfortune, like Hate, on so joyous a thing ? 
Because of her rival, — even Her whose witch-face 
I had slighted, and therefore was doom'd in that place 
To roam, and had roam'd, where all horrors grew rank. 
Nine days ere I wept with my brow on that bank ; 



123 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Her name be not named, but her spite would not fail 
To our love like a blight ; and they told me the tale 
Of Scylla, and Pious, imprison'd to speak 
His shrill-screaming woe through a woodpecker's beak. 

Then they ceased — I had heard as the voice of my star 
That told me the truth of my fortunes — thus far 
I had read of my sorrow, and lay in the hush 
Of deep meditation, — when lo ! a light crush 
Of the reeds, and I turn'd and look'd round in the night 
Of new sunshine, and saw, as I sipp'd of the light 
Narrow-winking, the realized nymph of the stream, 
Rising up from the wave with the bend and the gleam 
Of a fountain, and o'er her white arms she kept throwing 
Bright torrents of hair, that went flowing and flowing 
In falls to her feet, aud the blue waters roll'd 
Down her limbs like a garment, in many a fold. 
Sun-spangled, gold-broider'd, and fled far behind, 
Like an infinite train. So she came and reclin'd 
In the reeds, and I hunger'd to see her unseal 
The buds of her eyes that would ope and reveal 
The blue that was in them ; and they op'd, and she rais'd 
Two orbs of pure crystal, and timidly gazed 
With her eyes on my eyes ; but their color and shine 
Was of that which they look'd on, and mostly of mine — 
For she loved me, — except when she blush'd, and they sank, 
Shame-humbled, to number the stones on the bank, 
Or her play-idle fingers, while lisping she told me 
How she put on her veil, and in love to behold me, 
Would wing through the sun till she fainted away 
Like a mist, and then flew to her waters and lay 
In love-patience long hours, and sore dazzled her eyes 
In watching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 129 

But now they were heal'd, — O my heart, it still dances 

When I think of the charm of her changeable glances, 

And my image how small when it sank in the deep 

Of her eyes where her soul was, — Alas ! now they weep, 

And none knoweth where. In what stream do her eyes 

Shed invisible tears ? Who beholds where her sighs 

Flow in eddies, or sees the ascent of the leaf 

She has pluck'd with her tresses ? Who listens her grief 

Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet 

Grow emphatic among the loose pebbles, and beat 

Them together ? Ah ! surely her flowers float adown 

To the sea unaccepted, and little ones drown 

For need of her mercy, — even he whose twin-brother 

Will miss him for ever ; and the sorrowful mother 

Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss 

And cling to, all dripping and cold as it is, 

Because that soft pity is lost in hard pain ! 

We loved, — how we loved ! — for I thought not again 

Of the woes that were whisper'd like fears in that place 

If I gave me to beauty. Her face was the face 

Far away, and her eyes were the eyes that were drown'd 

For my absence, — her arms were the arms that sought round, 

And clasp'd me to naught ; for I gazed and became 

Only true to my falsehood, and had but one name 

For two loves, and call'd ever on ^gle, sweet maid 

Of the sky-loving waters, — and was not afraid 

Of the sight of her skin ; — for it never could be. 

Her beauty and love were misfortunes to me ! 

Thus our bliss had endured for a time-shorten'd space, 
Like a day made of three, and the smile of her face 
Had been with me for joy, — when she told me indeed 
Her love was self-task'd with a work that would need 
•7* 



130 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Some short hours, for in truth 'twas the veriest pity 

Our love should not last, and then sang me a ditty, 

Of one with warm lips that should love her, and love her 

When suns were burnt dim and long ages past over. 

So she fled with her voice, and I patiently nested 

My limbs in the reeds, in still quiet, and rested 

Till my thoughts grew extinct, and I sank in a sleep 

Of dreams, — but their meaning was hidden too deep 

To be read what their woe was ; — but still it was woe 

That was writ on all faces that swam to and fro 

In that river of night ; — and the gaze of their eyes 

Was sad, — and the bend of their brows, — and their cries 

Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears 

Travell'd down my cold cheeks, and I shook till my fears 

Awaked me, and lo ! I was couch'd in a bower, 

The growth of long summers rear'd up in an hour ! 

Then I said, in the fear of my dream, I will fly 

From this magic, but could not, because that my eye 

Grew love-idle among the rich blooms ; and the earth 

Held me down with its coolness of touch, and the mirth 

Of some bird was above me, — who, even in fear, 

Would startle the thrush ? and methought there drew near 

A form as of ^Egle, — but it was not. the face 

Hope made, and I know the witch-Queen of that place, 

Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a Death 

Which I fear'd, and yet fled not, for want of my breath. 

There was thought in her face, and her eyes were not raised 

From the grass at her foot, but I saw, as I gazed. 

Her spite — and her countenance changed with her mind 

As she plann'd how to thrall me with beauty, and bind 

My soul to her charms, — and her long tresses play'd 

From shade into shine and from shine into shade, 

Like a day in mid-autumn, — first fair, O how fair ! 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 131 

With long snaky locks of the adder-black hair 

That clung round her neck, — those dark locks that I prize, 

For the sake of a maid that once loved me with eyes 

Of that fathomless hue, — but they changed as they roll'd, 

And brighten'd, and suddenly blazed into gold 

That she comb'd into flames, and the locks that fell down 

Turn'd dark as they fell, but I slighted their brown. 

Nor loved, till I saw the light ringlets shed wild, 

That innocence wears when she is but a child ; 

And her eyes, — O I ne'er had been witch'd with their shine, 

Had they been any other, my ^Egle, than thine ! 

Then I gave me to magic, and gazed till I madden'd 
In the full of their light, — but I sadden'd and sadden'd 
The deeper I look'd, — till I sank on the snow 
Of her bosom, a thing made of terror and woe. 
And answer'd its throb with the shudder of fears, 
And hid my cold eyes from her eyes with my tears. 
And strain'd her white arms with the still languid weight 
Of a fainting distress. There she sat like the Fate 
That is nurse unto Death, and bent over in shame 
To hide me from her — the true ^gle — that came 
With the words on her lips the false witch had foregiv'n 
To make me immortal — for now I was even 
At the portals of Death, who but waited the hush 
Of world-sounds in my ear to cry welcome, and rush 
With my soul to the banks of his black-flowing river. 
O would it had flown from my body for ever. 
Ere I listen'd those words, w^hen I felt with a start, 
The life-blood rush back in one throb to my heart, 
And saw the pale lips where the rest of that spell 
Had perish'd in horror — and heard the farewell 
Of that voice that was drown'd in the dash of the stream ! 



132 HOOD'S POEMS. 



How fain had I follow'd, and plunged with that scream 

Into death, but my being indignantly lagg'd 

Through the brutaliz'd flesh that I painfully dragg'd 

Behind me : — " O Circe ! O mother of Spite ! 

Speak the last of that curse ! and imprison me quite 

In the husk of a brute, — that no pity may name 

The man that I was, — that no kindred may claim 

The monster I am ! Let me utterly be 

Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonor with me 

Uninscribed !" — But she listen'd my prayer, that was praise 

To her malice, with smiles, and advised me to gaze 

On the river for love, — and perchance she would make 

In pity a maid without eyes for my sake, 

And she left me like Scorn. Then I ask'd of the wave, 

What monster I was, and it trembled and gave 

The true shape of my grief, and I turn'd with my face 

From all waters for ever, and fled through that place, 

Till with horror more strong than all magic I pass'd 

Its bounds, and the world was before me at last. 

There I wander'd in sorrow, and shunn'd the abodes 
Of men, that stood up in the likeness of Gods, 
But I saw from afar the warm shine of the sun 
On their cities, where man was a million, not one ; 
And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending. 
That show'd where the hearts of the many were blending, 
And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came 
From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one fame 
As a chorus of man, — and they stream'd from the gates 
Like a dusky libation pour'd out to the Fates. 
But at times there were gentler processions of peace 
That I watch'd with my soul in my eyes till their cease, 
There were women ! there men ! but to me a third sex 



LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 133 

I saw them all dots — yet I loved them as specks : 

And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes 

I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise 

Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten 

By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten ! 

Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother 

Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother 

Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep 

Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep 

In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks 

That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks ; 

But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never 

I return'd to a spot I had startled for ever, 

Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none, 

Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son ? 

For the hunters of fields they all shunn'd me by flight, 
The men in their horror, the women in fright ; 
None ever remain'd save a child once that sported 
Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted 
The breeze ; and beside him a speckled snake lay 
Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away 
From the flow'r at his finger ; he rose and drew near 
Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear, 
But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright 
To grow to large manhood of merciful might. 
He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel, 
The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel. 
And question'd my face with wide eyes ; but when under 
My lids he saw tears, — for I wept at his wonder, 
He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then, 
That the once love of women, the friendship of men 
In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss 



134 HOOD'S POEMS. 



On my heart in its desolate day such as this ! 

And 1 yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, 

And lifted him up in my arms with intent 

To kiss him, — but he cruel-kindly, alas ! 

Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass ! 

Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled 

The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head, 

That dissever'd my ear, — but 1 felt not, whose fate 

Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate ! 

Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn. 
Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born. 
But what was that land with its love, where my home 
Was self-shut against me ; for why should I come 
Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father, 
With a blight to the last of his sight ? — let him rather 
Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn 
Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn 
To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how 
Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now 
Like Gods to my humbled estate ? — or how bear 
The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care 
Of my hands ? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came 
Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same 
As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream 
In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream 
That made wretches of many, as she rolPd her wild eyes 
Against heav'n, and so vanish'd. — The gentle and wise 
Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill 
In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still. 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT 



Alas ! That breathing Vanity should go 

Where Pride is buried, — like its very ghost, 

Uprisen from the naked bones below. 
In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast 

Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro. 
Shedding its chilling superstition most 

On young and ignorant natures — as it wont 

To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont ! 



Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, 
Behold two maidens, up the quiet green 

Shining, far distant, in the summer air 

That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between 

Their downy plumes, — sailing as if they were 
Two far-off" ships, — until they brush between 

The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait 

On either side of the wide open'd gate. 



136 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And there they stand — with haughty necks before 
God's holy house, that points towards the skies — 

Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, 

And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes : 

And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, 
Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, 

With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace, 

Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ;- 



Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, 
May wear the happiness of rich attire ; 

And those two sisters, in their silly pride, 

May change the soul's warm glances for the fire 

Of lifeless diamonds ; — and for health deny'd, — 
With art, that blushes at itself, inspire 

Their languid cheeks — and flourish in a glory 

That has no life in life, nor after-story. 



The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair 
In meekest censuring, and turns his eye 

Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r, 
And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. 

Good-hearted man ! what sullen soul would wear 
Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly 

Put on thy censure, that might win the praise 

Of one so grey in goodness and in- days ? 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 137 



Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame 
Of this ungodly shine of human pride, 

And sadly blends his reverence and blame 
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride 

Impatient : — many a red-hooded dame 

Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside 

From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again. 

That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. 



" I have a lily in the bloom at home," 

Quoth one, " and by the blessed Sabbath day 
I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come 

And read a lesson upon vain array ; — 
And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some 

Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say- 
Making my reverence, — ' Ladies, an you please, 
King Solomon's not half so fine as these.' " 



Then her meek partner, who has nearly run 

His earthly course, — " Nay, Goody, let your text 

Grow in the garden. — We have only one — 

Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next ? 

Summer will come again, and summer sun, 
And lilies too, — but I were sorely vext 

To mar my garden, and cut short the blow 

Of the last lily I may live to grow." 



138 HOOD'S POEMS. 



" The last !" quoth she, " and though the last it were — 
Lo ! those two wantons, where they stand so proud 

With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair, 
And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd 

And curtsey'd to ! — last Sabbath after pray'r, 
I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud 

If they were angels — but I made him know 

God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow !" 



So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk 

That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng, 

Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk, 

And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong, 

And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk, 
And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along. 

And gentle peasant clad in buff' and green. 

Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene ; 



And blushing maiden — modestly array' d 

In spotless white, — still conscious of the glass ; 

And she, the lonely widow, that hath made 
A sable covenant with grief, — alas ! 

She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade. 
While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass, 

Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress 

Her boy, — so rosy ! — and so fatherless ! 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 139 



Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near 
The fair white temple, to the timely call 

Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear. — 

Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl 

Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere 

Of the low porch, and heav'n has won them all, 

— Saving those two, that turn aside and pass, 

In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass. 



Ah me ! to see their silken manors trail'd 
In purple luxuries — with restless gold, — 

Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd 
In blotted black, — over the heapy mould 

Panting wave-wantonly ! They never quail'd 
How the warm vanity abused the cold ; 

Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone 

Sadly uplooking through transparent stone : 



But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, 
Shocking the awful presence of the dead ; 

Where gracious natures would their eyes benight, 
Nor wear their being with a lip too red. 

Nor move too rudely in the summer bright 
Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, 

Meting it into steps, with inward breath. 

In very pity to bereaved death. 



140 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resign 
To solemn pray'r, and the loud chanted hymn,- 

With glowing picturings of joys divine 

Painting the mistlight where the roof is dim ; 

But youth looks upward to the window shine, 
Warming with rose and purple and the swim 

Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains 

Of gorgeous-light through many-color'd panes ; 



Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath 
Enrobed his angels, — and with absent eyes 

Hearing of Heav'n, and its directed path, 

Thoughtful of slippers, — and the glorious skies 

Clouding with satin, — till the preacher's wrath 
Consumes his pity, and he glows, and cries 

With a deep voice that trembles in its might, 

And earnest eyes grown eloquent in light : 



" O that the vacant eye would learn to look 
On very beauty, and the heart embrace 

True loveliness, and from this holy book 

Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace 

Of love indeed! O that the young soul took 
Its virgin passion from the glorious face 

Of fair religion, and address'd its strife, 

To win the riches of eternal life ! 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 141 



" Doth the vain heart love glory that is none, 
And the poor excellence of vain attire ? 

O go, and drown your eyes against the sun, 
The visible ruler of the starry quire. 

Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, 

Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire ; 

And the faint soul down darkens into night, 

And dies a burning martyrdom to light. 



" O go, and gaze, — when the low winds of ev'n 
Breathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nod 

Their gold-crown'd heads ; and the rich blooms of heav'n 
Sun-ripen'd give their blushes up to God ; 

And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riv'n 
By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod 

Of heavenly Moses, — that your thirsty sense 

May quench its longings of magnificence ! 



" Yet suns shall perish — stars shall fade away — 
Day into darkness — darkness into death — 

Death into silence ; the warm light of day, 

The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath 

Of even — all shall wither and decay. 

Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath 

The touch of morn — or bubbles of rich dyes 

That break and vanish in the aching eyes." 



142 HOOD'S POEMS. 



They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed 

Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour 

Their sin to earth, — and with low drooping head 
Receive the solemn blessing, and implore 

Its grace — then soberly with chastened tread, 
They meekly press towards the gusty door, 

With humbled eyes that go to graze upon 

The lowly grass — like him of Babylon. 



The lowly grass ! — O water-constant mind ! 

Fast-ebbing holiness ! — soon-fading grace 
Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind 

Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face 
For ever ! — How they lift their eyes to find 

Old vanities. — Pride wins the very place 
Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now 
With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow ! 



And lo ! with eager looks they seek the way 

Of old temptation at the lowly gate ; 
To feast on feathers, and on vain array. 

And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state 
Of jewel-sprinkled locks. — But where are they, 

The graceless haughty ones that used to wait 
With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye ? — 
None challenge the old homage bending by., 



THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 143 



In vain they look for the ungracious bloom 
Of rich apparel where it glow'd before, — 

For Vanity has faded all to gloom, 

And lofty Pride has stifFen'd to the core, 

For impious Life to tremble at its doom, — 
Set for a warning token evermore, 

Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise 

Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes. 



The aged priest goes on each sabbath morn, 
But shakes not sorrow under his grey hair ; 

The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn, 
Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair ; — 

And ancient lips that pucker'd up in scorn. 
Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r ; 

And in the garden-plot, from day to day. 

The lily blooms its long white life away. 



And where two haughty maidens used to be, 

In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, 

Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly. 
Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod ; — 

There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see 

Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod 

Marking the spot, still tarries to declare 

How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. 



INOR POEMS 



1827. 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW, 147 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW 



Oh, when I was a tiny boy 

My days and nights were full of joy, 

My mates were blithe and kind ! — 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh. 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 

To cast a look behind ! 

A hoop was an eternal round 

Of pleasure. In those days I found 

A top a joyous thing ; — 
But now those past delights I drop, 
My head, alas ! is all my top. 

And careful thoughts the string ! 

My marbles — once my bag was stor'd — 
Now I must play with Elgin's lord, 

With Theseus foi a taw ! 
My playful horse has slipt his string. 
Forgotten all his capering, 

And harness'd to the law ! 

My kite — how fast and far it flew ! 
Whilst I, a sort of Fianklin, drew 

My pleasure from the sky ! 
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, 
The tasks I wrote — my present dreams 

Will never soar so high ! 



148 HOOD'S POEMS. 



My joys are wingless all and dead ; 
My dumps are made of more than lead ; 

My flights soon find a fall ; 
My fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
Joy never cometh with a hoop, 

And seldom with a call ! 

My football 's laid upon the shelf; 
I am a shuttlecock myself 

The world knocks to and fro ; — 
My archery is all unlearn 'd, 
And grief against myself has turn'd 

My arrows and my bow ! 

No more in noontide sun I bask ; 
My authorship 's an endless task, 

My head 's ne'er out of school : 
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, 
I have too many foes to fight, 

And friends grown strangely cool ! 

The very chum that shared my cake 
Holds out so cold a hand to shake. 

It makes me shrink and sigh : — 
On this I will not dwell and hang, 
The changeling would not feel a pang 

Though these should meet his eye ! 

No skies so blue or so serene 

As then ; — no leaves look half so green 

As cloth'd the play-ground tree ! 
All things I lov'd are alter'd so, 
Nor does it ease my heart to know 

That change resides in me J 



A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 149 



O, for the garb that mark'd the boy, 
The trousers made of corduroy, 

Well ink'd with black and red ; 
The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill — 
It only let the sunshine still 

Repose upon my head ! 

O, for the riband round the neck ! 
The careless dog's-ears apt to deck 

My book and collar both ! 
How can this formal man be styled 
Merely an Alexandrine child, 

A boy of larger growth ? 

O for that small, small beer anew ! 

And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue 

That wash'd my sweet meals down ; 
The master even ! — and that small Turk 
That fagg'd me ! — worse is now my work — 

A fag for all the town ! 

O for the lessons learn'd by heart ! 
Ay, though the very birch's smart 

Should mark those hours again ; 
I'd " kiss the rod," and be resign'd 
Beneath the stroke, and even find 

Some sugar in the cane ! 

The Arabian Nights rehears'd in bed ! 
The Fairy Tales in school-time read. 

By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! 
The angel form that always walk'd 
In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd 

Exactly like Miss Brown ! 



150 HOOD'S POEMS. 



The omne bene — Christmas come ! 
The prize of merit, won for home — 

Merit had prizes then ! 
But now I write for days and days, 
For fame — a deal of empty praise. 

Without the silver pen ! 

Then home, sweet home ! the crowded coach — 
The joyous shout — the loud appproach — 

The winding horns like rams' ! 
The meeting sweet that made me thrill, 
The sweetmeats almost sweeter still. 

No ' satis ' to the ' jams !' — 

When that I was a tiny boy. 

My days and nights were full of joy. 

My mates were blithe and kind ! 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
And dash the tear-drop from my eye. 

To cast a look behind ! 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 151 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER 



Summer is gone on swallows' wings, 
And Earth has buried all her flowers : 
No more the lark, the linnet sings. 
But Silence sits in faded bowers. 
There is a shadow on the plain 
Of Winter ere he comes again, — 
There is in woods a solemn sound 
Of hollow warnings whisper'd round, 
As Echo in her deep recess 
For once had turn'd a prophetess. 
Shuddering Autumn stops to list. 
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, 
With clouded face, and hazel eyes 
That Quench themselves, and hide in mist. 

Yes, Summer 's gone like pageant bright ; 
Its glorious days of golden light 
Are gone — the mimic suns that quiver, 
Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. 
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze 
That spoke in music to the trees ; 
Gone for damp and chilly breath. 
As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, 
Or newly from the lungs of Death. — 



152 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Gone its virgin roses' blushes, 
Warm as when Aurora rushes 
Freshly from the god's embrace, 
With all her shame upon her face. 
Old Time hath laid them in the mould ; 
Sure he is blind as well as old. 
Whose hand relentless never spares 
Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs ! 
Gone are the flame-ey'd lovers now 
From where so blushing-blest they tarried 
Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough, 
Gone ; for Day and Night are married. 
All the light of love is fled : — 
Alas ! that negro breasts should hide 
The lips that were so rosy red. 
At morning and at even-tide ! 

Delightful Summer ! then adieu 
Till thou shalt visit us anew : 
But who without regretful sigh 
Can say, adieu, and see thee fly ? 
Not he that e'er hath felt thy pow'r, 
His joy expanding like a flow'r 
That cometh after rain and snow, 
Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow : — 
Not he that fled from Babel-strife 
To the green sabbath-land of life 
To dodge dull Care 'mid cluster'd trees, 
And cool his forehead in the breeze, — 
Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, 
Shook from its wings a weight of grief, 
And perch'd upon an aspen leaf. 
For every breath to make it dance. 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 153 



Farewell ! — on wings of sombre stain, 
That blacken in the last blue skies, 
Thou fly'st ; but thou wilt come again 
On the gay wings of butterflies. 
Spring at thy approach will sprout 
Her new Corinthian beauties out, 
Leaf- woven homes, where twitter-words 
Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds ; 
Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, 
And April smiles to sunny hours. 
Bright days shall be, and gentle nights 
Full of soft breath and echo-lights, 
As if the god of sun-time kept 
His eyes half-open while he slept. 
Roses shall be where roses were, 
Not shadows, but reality ; 
As if they never perish'd there. 
But slept in immortality : 
Nature shall thrill with new delight, 
And Time's relumin'd river run 
Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright. 
As if its source were in the sun ! 

But say, hath Winter then no charms ? 
Is there no joy, no gladness warms 
His aged heart ? no happy wiles 
To cheat the hoary one to smiles ? 
Onward he comes — the cruel North 
Pours his furious whirlwind forth 
Before him — and we breathe the breath 
Of famish'd bears that howl to death. 
Onward he comes from rocks that blanch 
O'er solid streams that never flow, 
8* 



154 HOOD'S POEMS. 



His tears all ice, his locks all snow. 
Just crept from some huge avalanche — 
A thing half-breathing and half-warm^ 
As if one spark began to glow 
Within some statue's marble form, 
Or pilgrim stiffen'd in the storm. 
O ! will not Mirth's light arrows fail 
To pierce that frozen coat of mail ? 
O 1 will not Joy but strive in vain 
To light up those glaz'd eyes again ? 

No ! take him in, and blaze the oak, 
And pour the wine, and warm the ale ; 
His sides shall shake to many a joke, 
His tongue shall thaw in many a tale, 
His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, 
And even his palsy charm'd away. 
What heeds he then the boisterous shout 
Of angry winds that scold without. 
Like shrewish wives at tavern door ? 
What heeds he then the wild uproar 
Of billows bursting on the shore ? 
In dashing waves, in howling breeze. 
There is a music that can charm him ; 
When safe, and shelter'd, and at ease, 
He hears the storm that cannot harm him. 

But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din 
Of little hearts that laugh within. 
O ! take him where the youngsters play, 
And he will grow as young as they ! 
They come ! they come ! each blue-ey'd Sport, 
The Twelfth-Night King and all his court — 



THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 155 

'Tis Mirth fresh crown'd with misletoe ! 

Music with her merry fiddles, 

Joy " on light fantastic toe," 

Wit with all his jests and riddles, 

Singing and dancing as they go. 

And Love, young Love, among the rest, 

A welcome — nor unbidden guest. 

But still for Summer dost thou grieve ? 
Then read our Poets — they shall weave 
A garden of green fancies still. 
Where thy wish may rove at will. 
They have kept for after treats 
The essences of summer sweets, 
And echoes of its songs that wind 
In endless music through the mind : 
They have stamp'd in visible traces 
The " thoughts that breathe," in words that shine— 
The flights of soul in sunny places — 
To greet and company with thine. 
These shall wing thee on to flow'rs — 
The past or future, that shall seem 
All the brighter in thy dream 
For blowing in such desert hours. 
The summer never shines so bright 
As thought of in a winter's night ; 
And the sweetest loveliest rose 
Is in the bud before it blows. 
The dear one of the lover's heart 
Is painted to his longing eyes, 
In charms she ne'er can realize — 
But when she turns again to part. 
Dream thou then, and bind thy brow 



156 HOOD'S POEMS. 



With wreath of fancy roses now, 

And drink of Summer in the cup 

Where the Muse hath mix'd it up ; 

The " dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth," 

With the warm nectar of the earth ; 

Drink ! 'twill glow in every vein, . 

And thou shalt dream the winter through : 

Then waken to the sun again. 

And find thy Summer Vision true ! 



SONG. 157 



SONG. 



FOR MUS IC 



A LAKE and a fairy boat 

To sail in the moonlight clear, — 

And merrily we would float 

From the dragons that watch us here f 

Thy gown shall be snow-white silk, 
And strings of orient pearls, 
Like gossamers dipp'd in milk. 
Should twine with thy raven curls ! 

Red rubies should deck thy hands, 
And diamonds should be thy dow'r — 
But Fairies have broken their wands, 
And wishing has lost its pow'r ! 



158 HOOD'S POEMS. 



ODE: 



AUTUMN 



I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn 
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening 
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing 
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn. 
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; 
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 
With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 
Pearling his coronet of golden corn. 



Where are the songs of Summer ? — With the sun. 

Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, 

Till shade and silence waken up as one. 

And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 

Where are the merry birds ? — Away, away, 

On panting wings through the inclement skies, 

Lest owls should prey 

Undazzled at noon-day. 
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. 



ODE: AUTUMN. 159 



Where are the blooms of Summer ? — In the west, 
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, 
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest 
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs 

To a most gloomy breast. 
Where is the pride of Summer, — the green prime, 
The many, many leaves all twinkling ? — Three 
On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked lime 
Trembling, — and one upon the old oak tree ! 

Where is the Dryad's immortality ? — 
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew. 
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through 

In the smooth holly's green eternity. 



The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard. 

The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, 

And honey bees have stor'd 
The sweets of summer in their luscious cells ; 
The swallows all have winged across the main ; 
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells. 

And sighs her tearful spells 
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 

Alone, alone, 

Upon a mossy stone. 
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone 
With the last leaves for a love-rosary. 
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, • 
Like a dim picture of the drowned past 
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, 
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 
Into that distance, grey upon the grey. 



160 HOOD'S POEMS. 



O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 
Under the languid downfall of her hair ; 
She wears a coronal of flowers faded 
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; — 
There is enough Orf wither 'd everywhere 
To make her bower, — and enough of gloom ; 
There is enough of sadness to invite, 
If only for the rose that died, whose doom 
Is Beauty's, — she that with the living bloom 
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light : 
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite 
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, — 
Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl ; 
Enough of fear and shadowy despair. 
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul ! 



HYMN TO THE SUN. 161 



H¥MN TO THE SUN. 



Giver of glowing light ! 
Though but a god of other days, 

The kings and sages 

Of wiser ages 
Still live and gladden in thy genial rays ! 

King of the tuneful lyre, 
Still poets' hymns to thee belong ; 
Though lips are cold 
Whereon of old 
Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song ! 

Lord of the dreadful bow. 
None triumph now for Python's death ; 

But thou dost save 

From hungry grave 
The life that hangs upon a summer breath. 

Father of rosy day, 
No more thy clouds of incense rise ; 

But waking flow'rs, 

At morning hours, 
Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. 



162 HOOD'S POEMS. 



God of the Delphic fane, 
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime ; 

But they will leave 

On winds at eve, 
A solemn echo to the end of time. 



TO A COLD BEAUTY. 163 



TO A COLD BEAUTY, 



Lady, wouldst thou heiress be 
To Winter's cold and cruel part ? 

When he sets the rivers free, 

Thou dost still lock up thy heart ;- 

Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, 

But in the whiteness of thy brow ? 



Scorn and cold neglect are made 
For winter gloom and winter wind, 

But thou wilt wrong the summer air, 
Breathing it to words unkind, — 

Breath which only should belong 

To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 



When the little buds unclose, 

Red, and white, and pied, and blue, 

And that virgin flow'r, the rose. 
Opes her heart to hold the dew, 

Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 

With no jewel in its cup? 



164 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Let not cold December sit 

Thus in Love's peculiar throne : 

Brooklets are not prison'd now, 
But crystal frosts are all agone, 

And that which hangs upon the spray, 

It is no snow, but flow'r of May ! 



AUTUMN. 165 



AUTUMN 



The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, 
And fair and bright the rivers run ; 
These are but streams of winter cold, 
And painted mists that quench the sun. 



In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, . 
In secret boughs no bird can shroud ; 
These are but leaves that take to wing, 
And wintry winds that pipe so loud. 



'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms 
That on the cheerless valleys fall, 
The flowers are in their grassy tombs. 
And tears of dew are on them all. 



166 HOOD'S POEMS. 



THE SEA OF DEATH 



A FRAGMENT, 



— Methought I saw- 
Life swiftly treading over endless space ; 
And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace, 
The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave, 
Swallow'd her steps like a pursuing grave. 

Sad were my thoughts that anchor'd silently 
On the dead waters of that passionless sea, 
Unstirr'd by any touch of living breath : 
Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, 
Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings 
On crowded carcases — sad passive things 
That wore the thin grey surface, like a veil 
Over the calmness of their features pale. 

And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep 

Like water-lilies on that motionless deep. 

How beautiful ! with bright unruffled hair 

On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were 

Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! 

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, 

Meekly apart, as if the soul intense 

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence : 



THE SEA OF DEATH. 167 



And so they lay in loveliness, and kept 

The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept 

With very envy of their happy fronts ; 

For there were neighbor brows scarr'd by the brunts 

Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set 

His crooked autograph, and marr'd the jet 

Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn, 

And lips that curl'd in bitterness and scorn — 

Wretched, — as they had breathed of this world's pain, 

And so bequeathed it to the world again 

Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs. 

So lay they garmented in torpid light. 

Under the pall of a transparent night, 

Like solemn apparitions lull'd sublime 

To everlasting rest, — and with them Time 

Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face 

Of a dark dial in a sunless place. 



168 HOOD'S POEMS. 



BALLAD. 



She's up and gone, the graceless Girl ! 

And robb'd my failing years ; 
My blood before was thin and cold 

But now 'tis turn'd to tears ; — 
My shadow falls upon my grave, 

So near the brink I stand. 
She might have stayed a little yet, 

And led me by the hand ! 

Aye, call her on the barren moor, 

And call her on the hill, 
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry. 

And plover's answer shrill ; 
My child is flown on wilder wings, 

Than they have ever spread, 
And I may even walk a waste 

That widen'd when she fled. 

Full many a thankless child has been. 

But never one like mine ; 
Her meat was served on plates of gold, 

Her drink was rosy wine ; 
But now she'll share the robin's food, 

And sup the common rill, 
Before her feet will turn again 

To meet her father's will ! 



BALLAD. lag 



BALLAD. 



Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse 

And Beauty's fairest queen, 
Tho' 'tis not for my peasant lips 

To soil her name between : 
A king might lay his sceptre down, 

But I am poor and naught. 
The brow should wear a golden crown 

That wears her in its thought. 

The diamonds glancing in her hair, 

Whose sudden beams surprise, 
Might bid such humble hopes beware 

The glancing of her eyes ; 
Yet looking once, I look'd too long. 

And if my love is sin. 
Death follows on the heels of wrong. 

And kills the crime within. 

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, 

It was so pure and fine, 
O lofty wears, and lowly weaves, 

But hodden grey is mine : 
And homely hose must step apart, 

Where garter'd princes stand, 
But may he wear my love at heart 

That wins her lily hand ! 
9 



170 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Alas ! there's far from russet frieze 

To silks and satin gowns, 
But I doubt if God made like degrees, 

In courtly hearts and clowns. 
My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth, 

And brought her cheeks to blame, 
And all that's lordly of my birth, 

Is my reproach and shame ! 

'Tis vain to weep, — 'tis vain to sigh, 

'Tis vain this idle speech, 
For where her happy pearls do lie, 

My tears may never reach ; 
Yet when I 'm gone, e'en lofty pride 

May say of what has been, 
His love was nobly born and died, 

Tho' all the rest was mean ! 

My speech is rude, — but speech is weak 

Such love as mine to tell. 
Yet had I words, I dare not speak. 

So, Lady, fare thee well ; 
I will not wish thy better state 

Was one of low degree. 
But I must weep that partial fate 

Made suqh a churl of me. 



THE WATER LADY. 171 



THE WATER LADY. 



Alas, the moon should ever beam 
To show what man should never see !- 
I saw a maiden on a stream, 
And fair was she ! 

I stayed awhile, to see her throw 
Her tresses back, that all beset 
The fair horizon of her brow 
With clouds of jet. 

I stayed a little while to view 
Her cheek, that wore in place of red 
The bloom of water, tender blue, 
Daintily spread. 

I stayed to watch, a little space, 
Her parted lips if she would sing ; 
The waters closed above her face. 
With many a ring. 

And still I stay'd a little more, 
Alas ! she never comes again ; 
I throw my flow'rs from the shore, 
And watch in vain. 

I know my life will fade away, 
I know that I must vainly pine. 
For I am made of mortal clay, 
But she's divine ! 



172 HOOD'S POEMS. 



THE EXILE. 



The swallow with summer 

Will wing o'er the seas, 
The wind that I sigh to 

Will visit thy trees. 
The ship that it hastens 

Thy ports will contain, 
But me — I must never 

See England again ! 

There 's many that weep there. 

But one weeps alone. 
For the tears that are falling 

So far from her own ; 
So far from thy own, love. 

We know not our pain ; 
If death is between us, 

Or only the main. 

When the white cloud reclines 

On the verge of the sea, 
I fancy the white cliffs, 

And dream upon thee ; 
But the cloud spreads its wings 

To the blue heav'n and flies. 
We never shall meet, love. 

Except in the skies ! 



TO AN ABSENTEE. 173 



TO AN ABSENTEE, 



O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea, - 
Through all the miles that stretch between, 
My thought must fly to rest on thee, 
And would, though worlds should intervene. 

Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks 
The farther we are forc'd apart. 
Affection's firm elastic links 
But bind the closer round the heart. 

For now we sever each from each, 
I learn what I have lost in thee ; 
Alas, that nothing less could teach. 
How great indeed my love should be ! 

Farewell ! I did not know thy worth, 
But thou art gone, and now 'tis priz'd ; 
So angels walked unknown on-xearth. 
But when they flew were recognized ! 



114 HOOD'S POEMS. 



SONG. 



The stars are with the voyager 

Wherever he may sail ; 
The moon is constant to her time ; 

The sun will never fail ; 
But follow, follow round the world, 

The green earth and the sea, 
So love is with the lover's heart, 

Wherever he may be. 



Wherever he may be, the stars 

Must daily lose their light ; 
The moon will veil her in the shade ; 

The sun will set at night. 
The sun may set, but constant love 

Will shine when he 's away ; 
So that dull night is never night, 

And day is brighter day. 



ODE TO THE MOON. 175 



ODE TO THE MOON 



Mother of light ! how fairly dost thou go 

Over those hoary crests, divinely led ! — 

Art thou that huntress of the silver bow 

Fabled of old ? Or rather dost thou tread 

Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, 

Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, 

Where hunter never climb'd, — secure from dread ? 

How many antique fancies have I read 

Of that mild presence ! and how many wrought ! 

Wondrous and bright, 

Upon the silver light, 
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought ! 



What art thou like ? — Sometimes I see thee ride 

A far-bound galley on its perilous way. 

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray ;- 

Sometimes behold thee glide, 
Cluster'd by all thy family of stars. 
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, 
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars ; — 
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, 
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, 



176 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, 
To catch the young Endyniion asleep, — 
Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch ! 



Oil ! thou art beautiful, howe'er it be ! 
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever nam'd ; 
And he, the veriest Pagan, that first fram'd 
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee ! — 
It is too late, or thou should'st have my knee ; 
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows. 
And not divine the crescent on thy brows ! — 
Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon, 

Behind those chestnut boughs. 
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet ; 
I will be grateful for that simple boon. 
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, 
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet. 



In nights far gone, — ay, far away and dead, — 

Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye, — 

I was thy wooer on my little bed. 

Letting the early hours of rest go by. 

To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, 

And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ; 

For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams, — 

Thou wert the fairies' armorer, that kept 

Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corslets bright, 

Their spears, and glittering mails ; 
And ever thou didst spill in winding streams 

Sparkles and midnight gleams. 
For fishes to new gloss their argent scales ! — 



ODE TO THE MOON. 177 



Why sighs ! — why creeping tears ? — why clasped hands ?- 

Is it to count the boy's expended dower ? 

That fairies since have broke their gifted wands ? 

That young Delight, like any o'erblown flow'r, 

Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground ? — 

Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour. 

Thou art a sadder dial to old Time 

Than ever I have found 
On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r, 
Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme. 



Why should I grieve for this ? — O I must yearn, 

Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, 

Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, 

Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry. 

With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs eterne,- 

(Eternal to the world, though not to me), 

Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, 

The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon, 

When I am hears'd within, — 
Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, 
That now she watches through a vapor thin. 



So let it be : — Before I liv'd to sigh. 
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills. 
Beautiful Orb ! and so, whene'er I lie 
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. 
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills. 
And blessed thy fair face, O Mother mild ! 
9* 



178 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, 
Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond. 
And blend their plighted shadows into one : — 
Still smile at even on the bedded child, 
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand ! — 



TO . 1'70 



TO 



Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow ; 
The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine : — 
Flow'rs I have none to give thee, but I borrow 
Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. 

Here are red roses, gather'd at thy cheeks, 
The white were all too happy to look white : 
For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks ; 
It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright ! 

Dost love sweet Hyacinth ? Its scented leaf 
Curls manifold, — all love's delights blow double : 
'Tis said this flow 'ret is inscribed with grief, — 
But let that hint of a forgotten trouble. 

I pluck'd the Primrose at night's dewy noon ; 
Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night ;— 
'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon ! 
And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light ! 

These golden Buttercups are April's seal, — 
The Daisy stars her constellations be : 
These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, 
Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee ! 

Here 's Daisies for the morn, Primrose for gloom, 
Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours : — 
A wight once made a dial of their bloom, — 
So may thy life be measur'd out by flow'rs ! 



180 HOOD'S POEMS. 



THE FORSAKEN, 



The dead are in their silent graves, 
And the dew is cold above, 
And the living weep and sigh, 
Over dust that once was love. 

Once I only wept the dead, 
But now the living cause my pain : 
How couldst thou steal me from my tears, 
To leave me to my tears again ? 

My Mother rests beneath the sod, — 
Her rest is calm and very deep : 
I wishM that she could see our loves, — 
But now I gladden in her sleep. 

Last night unbound my raven locks, 
The morning saw them turn'd to grey, 
Once they were black and well belov'd. 
But thou art chang'd, — and so are they ! 

The useless lock I gave thee once, 

To gaze upon and think of me. 

Was ta'en with smiles, — but this was torn 

In sorrow that I send to thee ! 



SONNETS. 181 



I. 

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEAEE. 



How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky 

The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled ! 

Hues of all flow'rs that in their ashes lie, 

Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed, 

Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red, — 

Like exhalations from the leafy mould, 

Look here how honor glorifies the dead. 

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold !- 

Such is the memory of poets old, 

Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate ; 

Now they are laid under their marbles cold. 

And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create ; 

But God Apollo hath them all enroll'd, 

And blazon'd on the very clouds of fate ! 



182 HOOD'S POEMS. 



II. 

TO FANCY. 



Most delicate Ariel ! submissive thing, 
Won by the mind's high magic to its best, — 
Invisible embassy, or secret guest, — 
Weighing the light air on a lighter wing ; — 
Whether into the midnight moon, to bring 
Illuminate visions to the eye of rest, — 
Or rich romances from the florid West, — 
Or to the sea, for mystic whispering, — 
Still by thy charm'd allegiance to the will, 
The fruitful wishes prosper in the brain, 
As by the fingering of fairy skill, — 
Moonlight, and waters, and soft music's strain, 
Odors, and blooms, and my Miranda's smile, 
Making this dull world an enchanted isle. 



SONNETS. 183 



III. 

TO AN ENTHUSIAST. 



Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, 
Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind, 
And still a large late love of all thy kind. 
Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,- 
For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth, 
Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind 
Thine eyes with tears, — that thou hast not resign'd 
The passionate fire and fierceness of thy youth : 
For as the current of thy life shall flow. 
Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd. 
Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen. 
Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe 
Thrice cursed of thy race, — thou art ordain'd 
To share beyond the lot of common men. 



184 HOOD'S POEMS. 



IV. 

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh 

This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight ; 

That sometime these bright stars, that now reply 

In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night ; 

That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, 

And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow ; 

That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal spright 

Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below ; 

It is not death to know this, — but to know 

That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves 

In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 

So duly and so oft, — and when grass waves 

Over the past- away, there may be then 

No resurrection in the minds of men. 



SONNETS. 185 



By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, 

Graven by Time, in love with his own lore ; 

By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts. 

Wherein Love died to be alive the more ; 

Yea, by the sad impression on the shore. 

Left by the drown'd Leander, to endear 

That coast for ever, where the billow's roar 

Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear ; 

By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear 

That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall ; 

By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear 

That sigh'd around her flight ; I swear by all, 

The world shall find such pattern in my act. 

As if Love's great examples still were lack'd. 



186 HOOD'S POEMS. 



VI. 

ON RECEIVING A GIFT. 



Look how the golden ocean shines above 

Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth ; 

So does the bright and blessed light of love 

Its own things glorify, and raise their worth. 

As weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine, 

And stones like gems, and gems as gems indeed, 

Ev'n so our tokens shine ; nay, they outshine 

Pebbles and pearls, and gems and coral weed ; 

For where be ocean waves but half so clear. 

So calmly constant, and so kindly warm. 

As Love's most mild and glowing atmosphere. 

That hath no dregs to be upturn 'd by storm ? 

Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price, 

And more than gold to doting Avarice. 



f 



SONNETS. 187 



VII. 

SILENCE. 



There is a silence where hath been no sound, 

There is a silence where no sound may be, 

In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, 

Or in wide desert where no life is found, 

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ; 

No voice is hush'd — no life treads silently. 

But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, 

That never spoke, over the idle ground : 

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, 

Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls. 

And owls, that flit continually between. 

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, 

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone. 



188 HOOD'S POEMS. 



VIII. 

The curse of Adam, the old curse of all, 

Though I inherit in this feverish life 

Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife, 

And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall, - 

Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall 

I taste, through thee, my Eva, my sweet wife. 

Then what was Man's lost Paradise ! — how rife 

Of bliss, since love is with him in his fall ! 

Such as our own pure passion still might frame, 

Of this fair earth, and its delightful bow'rs, 

If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came 

To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs ; — 

But oh ! as many and such tears are ours, 

As only should be shed for guilt and shame ! 



I 



SONNETS. 189 



IX. 

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak 
Lives not within the humor of the eye ; — 
Not being but an outward phantasy. 
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek, — 
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, 
As if the rose made summer, — and so lie 
Amongst the perishable things that die. 
Unlike the love which I would give and seek : 
Whose health is of no hue — to feel decay 
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. 
Love is its own great loveliness alway. 
And takes new lustre from the touch of time ; 
Its bough owns no December and no May, 
But bears its blossom into Winter's clime. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK, 

AN ALLEGORY. 



There 's a murmur in the air, 

And noise in every street — 
The murmur of many tongues, 

The noise of numerous feet — 
While round the Workhouse door 

The Laboring Classes flock ; 
For why ? the Overseer of the Poor 

Is setting the Workhouse Clock. 

Who does not hear the tramp 

Of thousands speeding along 
Of either sex and various stamp, 

Sickly, crippled, or strong, 
Walking, limping, creeping, 

From court, and alley, and lane, 
But all in one direction sweeping, 

Like rivers that seek the main ? 
Who does not see them sally 

From mill, and garret, and room, 
In lane, and court, and alley. 
From homes in poverty's lowest valley, 

Furnished with shuttle and loom — 
Poor slaves of Civilisation's galley — 

10 



194 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And in the road and footways rally, 

As if for the Day of Doom ? 
Some, of hardly human form. 

Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil ; 

Dingy with smoke, and dust, and oil. 

And smirch' d besides with vicious soil, 
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm. 

Father, mother, and careful child, 

Looking as if it had never smiled — 
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan, 
With only the ghosts of garments on — 

The Weaver, her sallow neighbor ; 
The grim and sooty Artisan ; 
Every soul — child, woman, or man. 

Who lives — or dies — by labor. 

Stirred by an overwhelming zeal. 

And social impulse, a terrible throng ! 
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel, 
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel, 
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel — 
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal — 

Gushing, rushing, crushing along, 
A very torrent of Man ! 

Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, 
Grown at last to a hurricane strong, 
Stop its course who can ! 

Stop who can its onward course 
And irresistible moral force ; 
O ! vain and idle dream ! 

For surely as men are all akin, 
Whether of fair or sable skin. 
According to Nature's scheme, 



THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK. 195 



That Huma,n Movement contains within, 
A Blood -Power stronger than Steam. 

Onward, onward, W/ith hasty feet, 

They swarm — and westward still — 
Masses born to drink and eat, 
But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat. 

And famishing down Cornhill ! - 
'Through the Poultry — but still unfed — 
Christian charity, hang your head ! 
Hungry — passing the Street of Bread ; 

Thirsty — the Street of Milk ; 
Ragged — beside the Ludgate Mart, 
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art, 

With cotton, and wool, and silk ! 

At last, before that door 

That bears so many a knock, 
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor, 

Like sheep they huddle and flock — 
And would that all the Good and Wise 
Could see the Million of hollow eyes. 
With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies, 

Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock ! 

Oh ! that the Parish Powers, 

Who regulate Labor's hours. 

The daily amount of human trial, 
Weariness, pain, and self-denial. 
Would turn from the artificial dial 

That striketh ten or eleven, 

And go, for once, by that older one 
That stands in the light of Nature's sun, 

And takes its time from Heaven ! 



To the Editor of the Athenceum. 
My dear Sir, — The following Ode was written anticipating the tone of 
some strictures on my writings, by the gentleman to whom it is addressed. 
I have not seen his book ; but I know by hearsay that some of my verses 
are characterized as " profaneness and ribaldry" — citing, in proof, the 
description of a certain sow, from whose jaw a cabbage sprout — 

Protruded, as the dove so staunch 
For peace supports an olive branch. 

If the printed works of my Censor had not prepared me for any misappli- 
cation of types, I should have been surprised by this misapprehension of 
one of the commonest emblems. In some cases the dove unquestionably 
stands for the Divine Spirit ; but the same bird is also a lay representative 
of the peace of this world, and, as such, has figured time out of mind in 
allegorical pictures. The sense in which it was used by me is plain from 
the context ; at least, it would be plain to any one but a fisher for faults, 
predisposed to carp at some things, to dab at others, and to flounder in all. 
But I am possibly in error. It is the female swine, perhaps, that is pro- 
faned in the eyes of the Oriental tourist. Men find strange ways of mark- 
ing their intolerance ; and the spirit is certainly strong enough, in Mr. W.'s 
works, to set up a creature as sacred, in sheer opposition to the Mussulman, 
with whom she is a beast of abomination. It would only be going the 
whole sow. 

I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, 

Thos. Hood. 
1837. 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 197 



ODE TO EAE WILSON, ESQUIEE 



Close, close your eyes with holy dread. 

And weave a circle round him thrice ; 

For he on honey-dew hath fed. 

And drunk the milk of Paradise ! — Coleridge. 

It's very hard them kind of men 
Won't let a body be. — Old Ballad. 

A WANDERER, Wllson, from my native land, 
Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, 
"VYhere rolls between us the eternal sea, 
Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand, — 
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall ; 
Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call ; ■ 
Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd, 
A friendly missive warns me of a stricture. 
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd, 
And tho' I have not seen the shadow sketch'd, 
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture. 

I guess the features : — in a line to paint 
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. 
Not one of those self-constituted saints, 
Quacks — not physicians — in the cure of souls, 
Censors who sniff out mortal taints, 
And call the devil over his own coals — 



198 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, 

Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd ; 

Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, 
Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd, 
But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax — 
Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd 
Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax ! 

Of such a character no single trace 

Exists, I know, in my fictitious face ; 

There wants a certain cast about the eye ; 

A certain lifting of the nose's tip ; * 

A certain curling of the nether lip. 

In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky ; 

In brief it is an aspect deleterious, 

A face decidedly not serious, 

A face profane, that would not do at all 

To make a face at Exeter Hall, — 

That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, 

And laud each other face to face, 

Till ev'ry farthing- candle ray 

Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace ! 

Well ! — be the graceless lineaments confest ! 
I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth ; 

And dote upon a jest 
" Within the limits of becoming mirth ;" — 
No solemn sanctimonious face I pull. 
Nor think I 'm pious when I 'm only bilious — 
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious 
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull. 
I pray for grace — repent each sinful act — 
Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible ; 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 199 

And love my neighbor far too well, in fact, 
To call and twit him with a godly tract 
That's turn'd by application to a libel. 
My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, 
All creeds I view with toleration thorough, 
And have a horror of regarding heaven 
As anybody's rotten borough. 

What else 1 no part I take in party fray. 

With tropes from Billinsgate's slang- whanging tartars, 

I fear no Pope — and let great Ernest play 

At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs ! 

I own I laugh ai over-righteous men, 

I own I shake my sides at ranters, 

And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters, 

I even own, that there are times — but then 

It 's when I 've got my wine — I say d canters ! 

I 've no ambition to enact the spy 

On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry — 

'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses 

Who thrust them into matters none of theirs ; 

And tho' no delicacy discomposes 

Your Saint, yet 1 consider faith and pray'rs 

Amongst the privatest of men's affairs. 

1 do not hash the Gospel in my books. 
And thus upon the public mind intrude it. 
As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, 
No food was fit to eat till I had chew'd it. 
On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk ; 
Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk, — 

For man may pious texts repeat, 
And yet religion have no inward seat ; 



•200 HOOD'S POEMS. 



'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, 
A man has got his bellyfull of meat 
Because he talks with victuals in his mouth ! 

Mere verbiage, — it is not worth a carrot ! 
Why, Socrates or Plato — where's the odds ? — 
Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, 
And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot ! 

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is 

Not a whit better than a Mantis, — 
An insect, of what clim.e I can't determine, 
That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, 
By simple savages — thro' sheer pretence — 
Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin. 

But where's the reverence, or where the nous, 
To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby. 
Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, 
To show its pious paces to " the House ?" 

I honestly confess that I would hinder 
The Scottish member's legislative rigs. 

That spiritual Pinder, 
Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, 
That must be lash'd by law, wherever found. 
And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound. 
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, 
I view that grovelling idea as one 
Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, 
A charity -boy who longs to be a beadle. 

On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd 

How much a man can differ from his neighbor : 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 201 



One wishes worship freely giv'n to God, 
Ax^other wants to make it statute-labor — 
The broad distinction in a line to draw. 
As means to lead us to the skies above, 
You say — Sir Andrew and his love of law, 
And I — the Saviour with his law of love. 

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, 

Like the magnetic needle to the Pole ; 

But what were that intrinsic virtue worth. 

Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, 

Fresh from St. Andrew's College, 
Should nail the conscious needle to the north ? 

I do confess that I abhor and shrink 
From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, 
That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink 
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly — 
My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy, 
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord 
The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord 

Of this world's aristocracy. 
It will not own a notion so unholy, 
As thinking that the rich by easy trips 
May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly 
Must work their passage, as they do in ships. 

One place there is — beneath the burial sod 
Where all mankind are equalized by death ; 
Another place there is — the Fane of God, 
Where all are equal who draw living breath ; — 
Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul, 
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole — 

10* 



202 HOOD'S POEMS. 



He who can come beneath that awful cope, 
In the dread presence of a Maker just, 
Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust 
One even measure of immortal hope — 
He who can stand within that holy door, 
With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level, 
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor, — 
Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil ! 

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, 

In your last Journey- Work, perchance you ravage, 

Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say 

I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, sava:ge ; 

A very Guy, deserving fire and fagots, — 

A Scoffer, always on the grin. 
And sadly given to the mortal sin 
Of liking Maw worms less than merry maggots ! 

The humble records of my life to search, 

I have not herded with mere pagan beasts ; 

But sometimes I have " sat at good men's feasts," 

And I have been " where bells have knoll'd to church." 

Dear bells ! how sweet the sounds of village bells 

When on the undulating air they swim ! 

Now loud as welcomes ! faint, now, as farewells ! 

And trembling all about the breezy dells 

As fiutter'd by the wings of Cherubim. 

Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn ; 

And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above 

Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, — 

With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon ; — 

O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels, and Doubters ! 

If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion. 

Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters ? 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 203 

A man may cry Church ! Church ! at ev'ry word, 
With no more piety than other people — 
A daw 's not reckon'd a religious bird 
Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. 
The Temple is a good, a holy place, 
But quacking only gives it an ill savor ; 
While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, 
And bring religion's self into disfavor ! 

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, 
Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger, 

Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, 
A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger. 
Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, 
Against the wicked remnant of the week, 
A saving bet against his sinful bias — 
" Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, 
"I lie — I cheat — do anything for pelf. 
But who on earth can say I am not pious ?" 

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, 
Accept an anecdote well bas'd on facts. 

One Sunday morning — (at the day don't fret) — 

In riding with a friend to Bonder's End 

Outside the stage, we happen'd to commend 

A certain mansion that we saw To Let. 

" Aye," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple, 

" You're right ! no house along the road comes nigh it ! 

'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel, 

And master wanted once to buy it, — 
But t'other driv the bargain much too hard — 

He ax'd sure-ly a sum purdigious ! 



204 HOOD'S POEMS. 



But being so particular religious, 

Why, that, you see, put master on his guard !" 

Church is " a little heav'n below, 
I have been there and still would go," — 
Yet I am none of those who think it odd 

A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, 
And, passing by the customary hassock, 
Kneel down remote upon the simple sod. 
And sue in forma pauperis to God. 

As for the rest, — intolerant to none, 
Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, 
Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun 
I would not harshly scorn, lest even there 
I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r — 
An aim, tho' erring, at a " world ayont " — 

Acknowledgment of good — of man's futility, 
A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed 
That very thing so many Christians want — 
Humility. 

Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks, 
Such is my spirit — (I don't mean my wraith !) 
Such, may it please you, is my humble faith ; 
I know, full well, you do not like my works ! 
I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, 
As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, 

The Bible in one hand, 
And my own common-place-book in the other — 
But you have been to Palestine — alas ! 
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, 
Resemble copper wire, or brass. 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 205 

Which gets the narrower by going farther ! 
Worthless are all such Pilgrimages — very ! 
If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive 
The human heats and rancor to revive 
That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury. 
A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, 
To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, 
Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, , 
Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, 
At crippled Papistry to butt and poke. 
Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull 
Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloke ? 

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, 
Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old. 
Far distant Catholics to rate and scold 
For — doing as the Romans do at Rome ? 
With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit 
The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, 
About the graceless images to flit. 
And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers. 
Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops — ? 
People who hold such absolute opinions 
Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions, 
Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes. 

Gifted with noble tendency to climb. 
Yet weak at the same time. 
Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, 
That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings j 
And as the climate and the soil may grant, 
So is the sort of tree to which it clings. 
Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, 



206 HOOD'S POEMS. 



You aim your club at any creed on earth, 

That, by the simple accident of birth, 

You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo. 

For me — thro' heathen ignorance perchance, 

Not having knelt in Palestine, — I feel 

None of that griffinish excess of zeal. 

Some travellers would blaze with here in France. 

Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, 

Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker 

Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, 

If their " offence be rank," should mine be rancour? 

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan 

To cure the dark and erring mind ; 

But who would rush at a benighted man. 

And give him two black eyes for being blind ? 

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop 
Around a canker'd stem should twine. 
What Kentish boor would tear away the prop 
So roughly as to wound, nay kill the bine ? 

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd, 
With gauds and toys extremely out of season ; 
The carving nothing of the very best. 
The whole repugnant to the eye of reason. 
Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason — 
Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect 
One truly Catholic, one common form. 

At which uncheck'd 
All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm. 

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, 
One bright and balmy morning, as I went 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 207 

From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, 

If hard by the wayside I found a cross, 

That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot — 

While Nature of herself, as if to trace 

The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base 

The blue significant Forget-Me-Not ? 

Methought, the claims of charity to urge 

More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, 

The pious choice had pitch'd upon the verge 

Of a delicious slope, 
Giving the eye much variegated scope ; — 
" Look round," it whisper'd, " on that prospect rare, 
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue ; 
Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair. 
But " — (how the simple legend pierc'd me thro' !) 

" Priez pour les Malheureux." 

With sweet kind natures, as in honey'd cells. 

Religion lives, and feels herself at home ; 

But only on a formal visit dwells 

Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. 

Shun pride, O Rae !■ — whatever sort beside 
You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride ! 
A pride there is of rank — a pride of birth, 
A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, 
A London pride — in short, there be on earth 
A host of prides, some better and some worse ; 
But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint. 
The proudest swells a self-elected Saint. 

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, 
Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. 
Behold him in conceited circles sail, 



208 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, 
In all his pomp of pageantry, as if 
He felt " the eyes of Europe " on his tail ! 
As for the humble breed retained by man. 

He scorns the whole domestic clan — 

He bows, he bridles, 

He wheels, he sidles. 
At last, with stately dodgings in a corner 
He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her 
Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan ! 

" Look here," he cries (to give him words), 

" Thou feather'd clay — thou scum of birds !" 
Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes, — 
" Look here, thou vile predestin'd sinner, 

Doomed to be roasted for a dinner. 
Behold these lovely variegated dyes ! 
These are the rainbow colors of the skies. 
That heav'n has shed upon me con amove — 
A Bird of Paradise ? — a pretty story ! 
/ am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick ! 

Look at my crown of glory ! 
Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill !" 
And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick, 
With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill ! 
That little simile exactly paints 
How sinners are despis'd by saints. 
By saints ! — the Hypocrites that ope heav'n's door 
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches — 
But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd poor. 

In parish stocks instead of breeches. 

The Saints ! — the Bigots that in public spout. 
Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 209 

And go like walking " Lucifers " about 
Mere living bundles of combustion. 

The Saints ! — the aping Fanatics that talk 
All cant and rant, and rhapsodies highflown — 

That bid you baulk 

A Sunday walk, 
And shun God's work as you should shun your own. 

The Saints ! — the Formalists, the extra pious, 
Who think the mortal husk can save the soul. 
By trundling with a mere mechanic bias, 
To church, just like a lignum- vitse bowl ! 

The Saints ! — the Pharisees, whose beadle stands 

Beside a stern coercive kirk. 

A piece of human mason-work, 
Calling all sermons contrabands, 
In that great Temple that's not made with hands ! 

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom 
The gracious prodigality of nature. 
The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom. 
The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature, 
Recall the good Creator to his creature. 
Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome ! 
To Ms tun'd spirit the wild heather-bells 

Ring Sabbath knells ; 
The jubilate of the soaring lark 

Is chant of clerk ; 
For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet ; 
The sod's a cushion for his pious want ; 
And, consecrated by the heav'n within it. 



ilO HOOD'S POEMS. 



The sky-blue pool, a font. 
Each cloud-capp'd mountain is a holy altar ; 

An organ breathes in every grove ; 

And the full heart's a Psalter, 
Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love ! 

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians 

Poor Nature, with her face begrim'd by dust, 

Is stok'd, cok'd, smok'd, and almost chok'd ; but must 

Religion have its own Utilitarians, 

Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries. 

To make the road to heav'n a railway trust. 

And churches — that's the naked fact — mere factories ? 

Oh ! simply open wide the Temple door, 
And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet, 

With Voluntaries meet, 
The willing advent of the rich and poor ! 
And while to God the loud Hosannas soar. 
With rich vibrations from the vocal throng — 
From quiet shades that to the woods belong, 

And brooks with music of their own, 
Voices may come to swell the choral song 
With notes of praise they learn'd in musings lone. 

How strange it is while on all vital questions. 
That occupy the House and public mind. 
We always meet with some humane suggestions 
Of gentle measures of a healing kind, 
Instead of harsh severity and vigor, 
The Saint alone his preference retains 

For bills of penalties and pains, 
And marks his narrow code with legal rigor ! 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 211 

Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, 
What men of all political persuasion 
Extol — and even use upon occasion — 
That Christian principle, conciliation ? 
But possibly the men who make such fuss 
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, 
Attach some other meaning to the term. 
As thus : 

One market morning, in my usual rambles, 
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, 
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, 
I had to halt awhile, like other folks. 

To let a killing butcher coax 
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. 
A sturdy man he look'd to fell an ox, 
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak 
Of well-greas'd hair down either cheek, 
As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks 
Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks 
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle — 
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd. 
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd 
And meekly snuff 'd, but did not taste the puddle. 

Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt. 
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt. 
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it, — 
And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt 
Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it. 
At last there came a pause of brutal force. 

The cur was silent, for his jaws were full 

Of tangled locks of tarry wool, 



212 HOOD'S POEMS. 



The man had whoop'd and hollow'd till dead hoarse, 
The time was ripe for mild expostulation, 
And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by — 
" Zounds ! — my good fellow, — it quite makes me — why, 
It really — my dear fellow — do just try 
Conciliation !" 

Stringing his nerves like flint, 
The sturdy butcher seiz'd upon the hint, — 
At least he seiz'd upon the foremost wether, — ^^' 
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop 
Just nolens volens thro' the open shop — 
If tails come off he didn't care a feather, — 
Then walking to the door, and smiling grim. 
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together — 
" There ! — I've co?iciliated him !" 

Again — good-humoredly to end our quarrel — 
(Good humor should prevail !) 
I'll fit you with a tale 
Whereto is tied a moral. 

Once on a time a certain English lass 

Was seiz'd with symptoms of such deep decline, 

Cough, hectic, flushes, ev'ry evil sign. 

That, as their wont is at such desperate pass. 

The Doctors gave her over — to an ass. 

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, 

Each morn the patient quaiF'd a frothy bowl 

Of asinine new milk. 
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal 
Which got proportion ably spare and skinny — 
Meanwhile the neighbors cried " poor Mary Ann ! 



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. 213 

She can't get over it ! she never can !" 
When lo ! to prove each prophet was a ninny 
The one that died was the poor wetnurse Jenny. 

To aggravate the case, 
There were but two grown donkeys in the place ; 
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, 
The other long-ear'd creature was a male, 
Who never in his life had given a pail 

Of milk, or even chalk and water. 
No matter : at the usual hour of eight 
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate. 
With Mister Simon Gubbins on its back, — 
" Your sarvant, Miss, — a werry spring-like day, — 
Bad time for basses tho' ! good lack ! good lack ! 
Jenny be dead. Miss, — but I'ze brought ye Jack, 
He doesn't give no milk — but he can bray." 

So runs the story. 
And, in vain self-glory, 

Some Saints v/ould sneer at Gubbins for his blindness — 
But what the better are their pious saws 
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws. 
Without the milk of human kindness ? 



214 HOOD'S POEMS. 



THE TWO SWANS 

A FAIRY TALE. 



Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above 
The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear 
A fairy dream in honor of true love — 
True above ills, and frailty, and all fear — 
Perchance a shadow of his own career 
Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long twined 
By serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near, 
And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind 
A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind. 



I saw a tower builded on a lake, 
Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep — 
That seem'd a still intenser night to make, 
Wherein the quiet waters sunk to sleep, — 
And, whatsoe'er was prisoned in that keep, 
A monstrous Snake was warden :. — round and round 
In sable ringlets I beheld him creep 
Blackest amid black shadows to the ground, 
Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crown'd. 



THE TWO SWANS. 215 



From whence he shot fierce light against the stars, 
Making the pale moon paler with affright ; 

' And with his ruby eye out-threaten' d Mars, 
That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and brigtit — 
Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite, 
Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies, 
And that he might not slumber in the night. 
The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his large eyes. 

So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. 



Prince or princess in dismal durance, pent, 
Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate, 
Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, 
Watching the lonely waters soon and late, 
And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate, 
Or company their grief with heavy tears : — 
Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate 
For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears 
They weep and pine away, as if immortal years. 



No gentle bird with gold upon its wing 
Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird 
Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring 
Freedom's sweet key-note and commission word 
Learn'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirr'd — 
Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest ! 
Watch'd by that cruel Snake and darkly heard. 
He leave a widow on her lonely nest. 
To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. 



216 HOOD'S POEMS. 



No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, 
Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, 
To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark 
That bear that serpent image on their face, 
And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the base, 
Nerved to his royal death, he may not win 
His captive lady from the strict embrace 
Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within 
His sable folds — like Eve enthralled by the old Sin. 



But there is none no knight in panoply, 

Nor Love, intrench'd in his strong steely coat : 
No little speck — no sail — no helper nigh. 
No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat : — 
The distant shores show dimly and remote. 
Made of a deeper mist, — serene and grey, — 
And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float 
Over the gloomy wave, and pass away. 
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play. 



And bright and silvery the willows sleep 
Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease 
Their hoary heads ; but quietly they weep 
There sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half trees 
There lilies be — and fairer than all these, 
A solitary Swan her breast of snow 
Launches against the wave that seems to freeze 
Into a chaste reflection, still below 
Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go. 



THE TWO SWANS. 217 



And forth she paddles in the very noon 
Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing, 
Charm'd into being by the argent moon — 
Whose silver light for love of her fair wing 
Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping 
Her dainty plumage : — all around her grew 
A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring ; 
And all behind, a tiny little clue 
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue. 



And sure she is no meaner than a fay, 
Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake, 
By old ordainment : — silent as she lay, 
Touch'd by a moonlight wand I saw her wake, 
And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake 
The verdant prison of her lily peers. 
That slept amidst the stars upon the lake — 
A breathing shape — restored to human fears, 
And new-born love and grief — self-conscious of her tears. 



And now she clasps her wings around her heart. 
And near that lonely isle begins to glide 
Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start 
Turns her impatient head from side to side 
In universal terrors — all too wide 
To watch ; and often to that marble keep 
Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied 
Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep 
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. 
11 



218 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And well she may, to spy that fearful thing 
All down the dusky walls in circlets wound ; 
Alas ! for what rare prize, with many a ring 
Girding the marble casket round and round ? 
His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound, 
Terribly darkeneth the rocky base ; 
But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd 
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face 
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place. 



Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, 
No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, 
So he may never see beneath the wall 
That timid little creature, all too bright. 
That stretches her fair neck, slender and white, 
Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries 
Her thi'obbing throat, as if to charm the night 
With song — but, hush — it perishes in sighs. 
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies ! 



She droops, she sinks — she leans upon the lake, 
Fainting again into a lifeless flower ; 
But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake 
Her spirit from its death, and with new power 
She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower 
Of tender song, timed to her falling tears — 
That wins the shady summit of that tower. 
And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears, 
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears. 



THE TWO SWANS. 219 



And, lo ! the scaly beast is all deprest, 
Subdued like Argus by the might of sound — 
What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest 
To magic converse with the air, and bound 
The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown'd : — 
So on the turret-top that watchful Snake 
Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, 
As if his wrathful spite would never wake, 
Charm'd into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake ! 



His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, 
And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, 
To drink that dainty flood of music down — 
His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs — 
And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies. 
His looks for envy of the charmed sense 
Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, 
Stung into pain by their own impotence, 
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense. 



Oh, tuneful swan ! oh, melancholy bird ! 
Sweet was that midnight miracle of song, 
Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word 
To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong — 
Hinting a piteous tale- — perchance how long 
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, 
What time disguised thy leafy mates among — 
And no eye knew what human love and ache 
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break. 



220 HOOD'S POEMS. 



Therefore no poet will ungently touch 
The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew 
Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such 
A.S human pain may wander through and through, 
Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue — 
Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd, 
By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew 
Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed, 
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed ? 



And now the winged song has scaled the height 
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, 
And soon a little casement flashing bright 
Widens self-open'd into the cool air — 
That music like a bird may enter there, 
And soothe the captive in his stony cage ; 
For there is naught of grief, or painful care, 
But plaintive song may happily engage 
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage. 



And forth into the light, small and remote, 
A creature, like the fair son of a king. 
Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat 
Against the silver moonlight glistening, 
And leans upon his white hand, listening 
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone 
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing 
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan, 
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone ! 



THE TWO SWANS. 221 



And while he listens, the mysterious song, 
Woven with timid particles of speech, 
Twines into passionate words that grieve along 
The melancholy notes, and softly teach 
The secrets of true love, — that trembling reach, 
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun 
He missions like replies, and each to each 
Their silver voices mingle into one, 
Like blended streams that make one music as they run. 



" Ah ! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart, — 
Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high — 
Alas ! our lips are held so far apart. 
Thy words come faint, they have so far to fly ! — 
If I may only shun that serpent-eye, — 
Ah, me ! that serpent-eye doth never sleep ; — 
Then, nearer thee. Love's martyr, I will die ! — 
Alas, alas ! that word has made me weep ! 
For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep ! 



" My marble keep ! it is my marble tomb — 
Nay, sweet ! but thou hast there thy living breath- 
Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom ', 
But I will come to thee and sing beneath. 
And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath ; 
Nay, I will find a path from these despairs. 
Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death, 
Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs. — 
Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares !" 



222 IIOOD^S FOEZ.l' 



Full sudden at these words the princely youth 
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still 
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth, 
But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill 
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill 
For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay — 
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, 
Held some short throbs by natural dismay. 
Then down, down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. 



Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight. 
Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall ; 
Now fair and spangled in the sudden light. 
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall ; 
Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall 
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; 
Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small, 
Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below, 
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. 



But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace 
The marble walls about — which he must tread 
Before his anxious foot may touch the base : 
Long is the dreary path, and must be sped ! 
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, 
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil 
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread, 
Impatient plunges from the last long coil : 
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil. 



THE TWO SWANS. 223 



The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete, 
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake 
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet, 
When fiercely drops adown that cruel snake — 
His steely scales a fearful rustling make. 
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell 
The sable storm ; — the plumy lovers quake — 
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, 
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell. 



His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, 
His horrible pursuit — his red eyes glare 
The waters into blood — his eager breath 
Grows hot upon their plumes : now, minstrel fair I 
She drops her ring into the waves, and there 
It widens all around, a fairy ring 
Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair 
Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling 
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. 



Bending their course over the pale grey lake. 
Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd 
In tender flushes, still the baffled snake 
Circled them round continually, and bayM 
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade 
The sanctuary ring — his sable mail 
Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made 
A shining track over the waters pale, 
LashM into boiling foam by his enormous tail. 



224 HOOD'S POEMS. 



And so they sail'd into the distance dim, 
Into the very distance — small and white, 
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim 
Over the brooklets — follow 'd by the spite 
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright 
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy 
Till on the grassy marge I saw them light, 
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy, 
Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy ! 



Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers 
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes 
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers 
The Oriental sun began to rise. 
Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies ; 
Wherewith that sable Serpent far away 
Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs 
From waking blossoms purified the day. 
And little birds were sweetly singing from each spray. 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 225 



ODE. 

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.* 



Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
That classic house, those classic grounds 

My pensive thought recalls ! 
What tender urchins now confine, 
What little captives now repine, 

Within yon irksome walls ! 

Ay, that 's the very house ! I know 
Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! 

Its chimneys in the rear : 
And there 's the iron rod so high, 
That drew the thunder from the sky 

And turn'd our table-beer ! 

There I was birch'd ! there I was bred ! 
There like a little Adam fed 

From Learning's woeful tree ! 
The weary tasks I used to con ! — 
The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — 

Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 

* No connexion with any other Ode. 
11* 



226 HOOD'S POEMS. 



The summon'd class ! — the awful bow ! — 
I wonder who is master now 

And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
How many ushers now employs, 
How many maids to see the boys 

Have nothing in their heads ! 

And Mrs. S * * * ?— Doth she abet 
(Like Pallas in the parlor) yet 

Some favor'd two or three,-^ — 
The little Crichtons of the hour, 
Her muffin-medals that devour, 

And swill her prize bohea ? 

Ay, there 's the play-ground ! there 's the lime. 
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 

So wildly I have read ! — 
Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 

Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 

Who struts the Randall of the walk ? 
Who models tiny heads in chalk ? 

Who scoops the light canoe ? 
What early genius buds apace ? 
Where 's Poynter 1 Harris ? Bowers ? Chase ? 

Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 

Alack ! they 're gone — a thousand ways ! 
And some are serving in " the Greys," 

And some have perished young ! — 
Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ; 

And blithe Carew — is hung ! 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 227 



Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
To savages at Owhyee ; 

Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — 
New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 

" And push us from our forms /" 

Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
And leap, and skip, and mob about, 

At play where we have play'd ! — 
Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine 
Their crony arms ; some in the shine. 

And some are in the shade ! 

Lo there what mix'd conditions run 
The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 

And Fortune's favor'd care — 
The wealthy born, for whom she hath 
Mac-Adamised the future path — 

The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 

Some brightly starr'd — some evil born, — 
For honor some, and some for scorn, — 

For fair or foul renown ! 
Good, bad, indifF'rent — none may lack ! 
Look, here 's a White, and there 's a Black ! 

And there's a Creole brown ! 

Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
And wish their frugal sires would keep 

Their only sons at home ; — 
Some tease the future tense, and plan 
The full-grown doings of the man. 

And pant for years to come ! 



228 HOOD'S POEMS. 



A foolish wish ! There 's one at hoop j 
And four at Jives ! and five who stoop 

The marble taw to speed ! 
And one that curvets in and out, 
Reining his fellow Cob about, — 

Would I were in his steed ! 

Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
That boyish harness off, to swop 

With this world's heavy van — 
To toil, to tug. O little fool ! 
While thou canst be a horse at school 

To wish to be a man ! 

Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
To wear a crown, — to be a king ! 

And sleep on regal down ! 
Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
Far happier is thy head that wears 

That hat without a crown ! 

And dost thou think that years acquire 
New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 

More happy than his son 1 
That manhood's mirth ? — Oh, go thy ways 
To Drury-lane, when plays, 

And see how forced our fun ! 

Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — 
Our tops are spun with coils of care 

Our dumps are no delight ! — 
The Elgin marbles are but tame. 
And 'tis at best a sorry game 

To fly the Muse's kite ! 



ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 229 

Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 
. Like balls with no rebound ! 
And often with a faded eye 
We look behind, and send a sigh 
Towards that merry ground ! 

Then be contented. Thou hast got 
The most of heaven in thy young lot : 

There 's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast- 
Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 

A sorry ireaking up ! 



THE END. 



WILEY & PUTNAM'S 

LIBRARY OF AMERICAN BOOKS 



No. I. 

JOURNAL OF AN AFRICAN CRUISER. 

Jounial of an African Cruiser. Edited by Nathaniel Hawthorne. 1vol., 
beautifully printed, 00 cents. 

" This Journal is freshly and cleverly written, and touches on a scene 
little liackneyed by journalists or travellers. He writes unaffectedly on 
most subjects and often with great animation.' — London Examiner. 

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thing to our previous knowledge, and that, in an amusing manner." — Lon- 
don ^Stlas. 

".The Subject has the advantage of novelty ; as, although an extensive 
commerce is carried on along the coast by British merchants, the captains 
they employ are not exactly of a literary turn ; neither do the officers of our 
royal navy appear anxious to give the public the result of their experience 
— weiuned down, perhaps, by the pestiferous climate and the arduous char- 
acter of their labors ; whilst the dreaded pestilence effectually stops the 
tourist in search of the picturesque. To our recollection, the last dozen 
years have only produced three books touching upon Western Africa ; that 
of Holman, the blind traveller, who called at Sierra Leone and Cape Coast 
Castle, but of course saw nothing; Ranken's ' White Man's Grave,' v/hich 
was confined to Sierra Leone, and which preferred the attractions of literary 
effect to solid accuracy ; with Dr. Madden's semi-official reports, which 
were obnoxious to the same remark with a bias superadded. Hence, the 
' Journal of an African Cruiser ' is not only fresh in its subject, but inform- 
ing in its matter, especially in relation to the experiment of Liberia. It 
has the further advantage of giving us an American view of the slave trade 
and the Negro character, without the prejudices of the southern planter, or 
the fanaticism of the abolitionist." — London t'^jiectator. 

" As pleasant and intelligent a specimen of American Literature written 
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—London Lit. Gaz. July 19, 1S45. 

** A very entertaining volume, a worthy leader of the series of American 
Books." — *S'7/?i7/j'.? Weekly Volume. 



WILEY AA'D PUTNAM'S ADVERTISEMENT 



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" This is the tiUe o ^ book just issued by Wiley & Putnam, as No. 1 af 
their proposed LisRARi of American Books, a series intended to em- 
brace original works of n.c^rit and interest, from the pens of American 
authors. The design can scarcely fail to be successful. We have a firm 
faith that books well worth reading, — as well worth it as English books of 
the same class, — can be produced in this country; and such books, and 
such only, we presume Messrs. Wiley & Putnam intend to publish in their 
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No. II. 
POE'S TALES. 

Tales. By Edgar A. Poe. 1 vol., beautifully printed in large clear type, 
on fine paper, 50 cents. 

This collection includes the most characteristic of the peculiar series 
of Tales written by Mr. Poe. Among others v/ill be found " The Murders 
of the Rue Morgue," " The Purloined Letter," " Marie Roget," " The 
House of Usher," " The Black Cat," " The Gold Bug," " The Descent 
into the Maelstrom," " The Premature Burial," " Mesmeric Revelations," 
&c., &c. 

" Most characteristic tales and stories." — Boston Courier 

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i r.terest. " — Phil a. In quirer. 

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pious woman, such as we have known and loved. Such books make ua 
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lanus and Placide's Grandfather Whitehead. 

" Another capital feature in this series of books, is the bringing out of 
Hazlitt's writings in a style such as their merits deserve. William Hazlitt 
possessed one of the acutest minds of his day. He lived upon literature 
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powers of reflection of a high order. In many respects he is an excellent 
guide to truth, setting an example by his vigorous independence of thought, 
his earnestness of sympathy, and refined definitions of artistic excellence 
and personal character. At the same time he was a man of strong preju- 
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read with constant discrimination. In his ' Table-Talk,' which forms two 
numbers of the ' Library,' there are innumerable attractive reminiscences 
of books and men, and suggestions of rare value both for the writer, the 
artist, and the man who desires to improve the advantages which nature 
bestows. We know of few writers who, with all his defects, are so alive 
as Hazlitt. He had that mental activity which is contagious, and has done 
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works. They will be a valuable accession to the current literature of the 
day. 

" It is obvious from this hasty survey, that there are two particulars in 
which these books deserve the name of ' Choice Literature f and which 
honorably distinguish them from the m.ass of reprints that has deluged the 
land with cheap reading. They contain ideas, and they have a style. The 
former will furnish the hungry mind, and the latter will refine the crude 
taste, so that an actual benefit, independent of the diversion attending s\4ch 
reading, will certainly accrue. We have dwelt at unusual length upon this 
series of books, because we regard their appearance and popularity as the 
best sign of the times, as far as literature is concerned, which we can now 
discern. The apathy of our publishers, in regard to all compositions of- 
fered them, except fiction, and that of the most vapid kind ; the apparent 
success of the cheap system, and the ' angels' visits ' of works of real merit, 
seemed to indicate a fatal lapse of Vv^holesome taste. 

" The ' Library of Choice Literature,' was started on a different princi- 
ple. It appealed to good sense and the love of beauty, rather than to amor- 
bid appetite for excitement. We therefore regard the favorable reception 
it has met with, as evidence that the public iji the end, will, after trying all 
things, hold fast that which is good. We shall look for the American se- 
ries, advertised by the publishers, with great interest While we have 
criticism like that which occasionally redeems our periodical literature, 
such a prose poet as Hawthorne, such a speculative essayist as Emerson, 
such a brilliant tale writer as Willis, to say nothing of adepts in other de- 
pa-.-tments, surely there is no diificulty in making a very respectable i\Eneri«r 
can Library of Choice Literature." — JST. Y. Evening Post. 



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I. 

EOTHEN. 

EuTiis^j ; OB Traces of Travel brought home from the Eist 
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II. 

THE AMBER WITCH. 

Mary Schweidler, the Amber Witch, the most interesting trial tor 
Witchcraft ever known, printed from an imperfect manuscript by her 
father, Abraham Schweidler, the pastor of Coserow, in the island of 
Usedom. Edited by W. Meinhold, Doctor of Theology, Pastor, &c., 
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style. This work was written by Dr. Meinhold, when one of their students ; 
and he subsequently published it to test their theory. It was published as 
a matter of fact, in its present form. All Germany was non-plussed. It 
was finally determined by the critics (especially the infallible critics of 
Tubingen) that it was truth and reality. Finally Dr. Meinhold, in a Germau 
paper, acknowledged himself the author, and that it was purely fictitious. 
The German critics, however, will hardly believe him on his word. 

''The work is written, say the reviewers, with admirable skill, so much 
so that it rivals the Robinson Crusoe of Dp Foe This is saying enough " — 
Cine in. Chron. 

III. 

UNDINE AND SINTRAM. 

Undine, translated from the German of La Motte Fouqu6, by Rev 
Thomas Tracy, with Sintram and his Companions Price 50 cents. 



WILEY & PUTNAM'S ADVERTISEMENT. 



" Undine is a universal favorite ; one of the most simply beautiful and per- 
fectly constructed stories in the whole German Literature. The sentiment 
of the story is as pure and unbroken as the fountains so often introduced, 
which in the midst of perpetual change and action are always he same. 
The whole atmosphere of the piece is vapory and gauzelike. It is one cf 
those conceptions of genius which, once taken into the mind, feed it for erer. 
If there are any of our readei's who have not yet learnt to value Undine, they 
have a new enjoyment in store for themselves. The present translation is 
a copyright one, that of Rev. Thomas Tracy, printed now for the fifth time, 
and with the last corrections of the translator. Sintram, the tale whicfc 
accompanies Undine, is here published, for the first time, in this country 
It introduces us into the midst of the old northern chivalry, at its first 
meeting with the Christianity of the south, before the former had yielded its 
early barbarity and fierceness. The contrast between the cloister and the 
hunting field and wassail chamber is powerfully presented ; the dark powers 
of the air still hover o^er the land, but within the breast there is a great 
conflict between the light and darkness, the peace and war. In Smtrara 
this struggle is introduced. It is the warfare which goes on in the heart of 
every man who is assailed by temptation and preserved by faith." — Dem. 
Review. 

IV. 

IMAGINATION AND FANCY. 

Imagination and Fancy ; oi selections from the English poets, illustrative 
of those requisites of their art; with markings of the best passages, critical 
notices of the writers, and an Essay in answer to the question, " What i.s 
Poetry" by Leigh Hunt. Price 50 cents. 

*' Mr. Leigh Hunt's work is one of those unmistakable gems about which 
no two people differ widely; accordingly, the whole press has pronounced 
but one verdict, and that verdict favorable. Yet friends and foes unite in 
praising ' Imagination and Fancy.' The reason is simple, — the excellence 
of the book is genuine, evident, distorted by no systematic bias, injured by 
no idiosyncrasy. It is really and truly an exquisite selection of lovely pas- 
sages, accompanied with critical notices of unusual worth." — Westminster 
Review. 

" We might extract numberless gems of thought and feeling from this 
volume, if our limits would permit. We can cordially recommend it to the 
lovers of poetry, as a volume wherein they may have a ple.~usant colloquy 
with the genial spirit of Leigh Hunt, on some of the noblest and finest 
Bpecimens of imagination and fancy which literature contains." — Graham^s 
Magazine. 

V. 

DIARY OF LADY NA^I LLOUG H B Y. 

80 much of the Diary of Lady Willoughby as relates to her Domestic His- 
tcry, and to the Eventful period of the reign of Charles I. Price 25 cts. 

***Lady Willoughby' s Diary' has doubtless, before this, found its wtijr 
i a thousani hands and hearts. It is a sort of 'sacra privata,' a reveia 



WILEY & PUTNAIvrS ADVERTISEMENT^ 



tion of a Vvoman's Heart as we conceive of it, oftener than we find it, but 
still a revelation that all will be happy to believe in. It is hard to leli 
which most to admire, the skill of the author in sustaining so successfully 
the vraisemUance at which he aimed, or his truth to nature, the same in 
the seventeenth as the nineteenth century." — JV*. Y. Post. 

" This book is more like lifting the lid of the lily's heart, and seeing how 
the perfume is distilled, than anything less poetical that we can think of 
It is so far within the beginnings of common observation — so exquisitely 
delicate and subtle — so truthful withal, and such a picture of nature's lady- 
iikeness — that, to some appreciation, it would have been a pity if angels 
alone had read such a heart-book, m the one turning over of its leaves of 
life."— JV. Y. Mirror. 

" This is a charming little work. The simple but antique style of lan- 
guage in which it is clothed, together with much that is beautiful in 
thought and expression, and an exquisitely drawn picture of domestic life 
among those of rank and consequence in olden time, stamps the work with 
a novelty and interest which is quite rare." — 1/nerican Republican. . 

'' This is a delightful book. It is full of sweet domestic pictures, a mix 
ture of enjoyment and trial, a development of the character of an affection- 
ate, trusting wife and mother. The delineation of true piety, the believing, 
prayerful and submissive spirit, mingled in these pages, must have come 
from personal experience." — JV*. Y. Evangelist. 

" This is a very pleasing and interesting little book, as a picture, clear in 
tone, and in good keeping. — We cordially recommend the work." — JY. Y. 
Tribune. 

" We briefly noticed this delightful bool<; yesterday, but would again call 
attention to it, as it is full of exquisite pathos. We confess it took us by 
surprise, and mightily disturbed our self-possession. Every parent will 
appreciate it" — Cincinnati Herald. 

VI. & IX. 

HAZLITT'S WORKS. 

Table Talk. — Opinions on Books, Men and Things. By Wil- 
liam Hazlitt. First American Edition. In Two Parts. •■ Beauti- 
fully printed in large, clear type, on fine paper — (forming Nos. 6 and 9 ol 
the Library of Choice Reading). — Price each S?^ cents. 

Contents. — Essay 1. On the Pleasure of Painting. 2. The same subject 
continued. 3. On the Past and Future. 4. On People with one Idea. 
5. On the Ignorance of the Learned. 6. On Will-Making. 7. On a 
Landscape of Nicolas Poussin. 8. On Going a Journey. 9. Why distant 
objects please. 10. On Corporate Bodies. IL On the Knowledge of Char- 
acter. 12. On the Fear of Death. 13. On Application to Study. . 14. 
On the Old Age of Artists. 15. On Egotism. 16. On the Regal Char- 
acter. 

Contents. — Essay 17. On the look of a Gentleman. 18. On Reading OlcJ 
Books. 19. On Personal Character. 20. On Vulgarity and Affectation 
l\. On Antiquity. 22. Ad ice to a School Boy. 23. The Indian Jugglers 
♦* On the Prose Style of Poers, 25. On the Conversation of Authors 



WILEY & PUTNAM'S ADVERTISEAIENT. vj'i 

26. The same subject continued. 27. My First Acquaintance w.th Poets, 
28. Of Persons one would wish to have seen. 29. Shyness of Scholars. 
30. On Old English Writers and Speakers, 

" We are glad to see that this capital series continues to meet with great 
favor. It is the best selection of popular reading which we have yet seen 
issued in this country. ■' We cannot but hope that this Sixth number is bat 
the beginning of a complete or nearly complete republication cf Hazlitt s 
Miscellanies. In our judgment, he was one of the most brilliant ar^d 
attractive Prose writers, and decidedly the best Critic which England has 
produced in the Nineteenth Century. No man ever had a more exquisite 
and profound feeling of all the beauties of a great author than Hazlitt 
I)oleridge imagined move splendidly for the author who pleased him, often- 
times creating a beauty for his Idol which no other vision less keen than his 
own could discern. Charles Lamb dissected an occasional vein of Fancy or 
Feeling with more dexterous Tact Wilson romanced and hyperbolized 
about a great writer with a more gushing and copious Eloquence. Leigh 
Hunt — the Critic of details — sometimes detected with more unerring accu- 
racy, the music of a cadence, or the gleam of a metaphor. Jeffrey summed 
up the whole case of an author's defects and merits with a more lawyer-like 
completeness and precision. ' And Macaulay certainly excels Hazlitt, as he 
excels all his critical compeers, in that marvellous power of analysis 
and generalization, which always enables him to render a cogent and con- 
clusive reason for the whole literary faith that is in him. But as a critical 
help toward a just appreciation of a great masterwork, Hazlitt is the best 
of them all. His taste was just as sensitive and fastidious as it could be 
without losing its manliness and health. His criticisms, in fact, want 
nothing but a severe logic. A_dmirably as he ahvays applies the Canons of 
a just taste, he is not successful, comparatively, when he attempts to expound 
the principles in which they are founded. Som.e great Lawyers are called 
Case Lawyers, because they apply precedents with great felicity, while 
they are incapable of seizing, ia a broad and strong grasp, the Philosophy 
of Legislation. In this sense, Hazlitt vv^as a Case Critic. He saw and felt 
with admirable distinctness, the Critical truth in the Case before him, but 
he seemed to lack the power or hcibit re,|uisite to form a Philosophy of 
Criticism. There is no system in his literary and artistic judgments. This 
is the more remarkable, because, in the domain of metaphysical speculation, 
he was certainly a very bold, acute, and vigorous thinker. Hazlitt's Miscel- 
laneous Essays are certainly most pleasant and suggestive reading ; yet to 
us, they have always seemed inferior to his Criticisms. They often dis- 
play, indeed, great shrewdness of observation and an almost unparalleled 
vividness of Fancy ; but sometimes they wander far out of sight both of 
truth and fact. On the whole, however, the writings of Hazlitt are emi 
nently in their place in this ' Library of Choice Reading,' and we .bopc, 
the. Publishers will soon give us more of them." — The JVew World 

" The writings of William Hazlitt display much originality and genius, 
united with great critical acuteness and brilliancy of fancy." — Encyclopedia 
Britannic a. 

" The great merits of Hazlitt as a writer are a force and ingenuity of illustra 
tioD, strength, terseness and vivacity. . . But his chief title to fame is deriv 
tui from his Essays on objects of Taste and Literature, v/hich are deservedly 
popular. In a number of fine passages, which one would read not only 
once, but again and again, we hardly know in the whole circle of English 
Literature any v^ •ter who can match Hazlitt." — Penny Cyclopedia, 



viii WILEY & PUTNAM'S ADVERTISEMENT. 

•' His criticisms, while they extend our insight into the causes of poetical 
f xcellence, teach us, at the same time, more keenly to enjoy and more 
fcni.lly to revere it." — Edinburgh Review. 

"A man of d5cided genius, and one of the most remarkable writers of the 
age was William Hazlitt, whose bold and vigorous tone of thinking, and 
acute criticisms on Poetry, the Drama and Fine Arts, will ever find a host of 
admirers His style is sparkling, pungent and picturesque." — Chambers 
English Literature. 

" A highly original thinker and writer — his ' Table-Talk ' possesses very 
considerable merit." — British Cyclopedia. 

" Hazlitt's Works do credit to his abilities." — Literary Gazette. 

" He displays great fertility and acute powers of mind ; and his style is 
sparkling and elegant." — Blake. 

" Hazlitt never wrote one dull nor one frigid line. If we were called 
upon to point out the Critic and Essayist whose impress is stamped the 
deepest and most sharply upon the growing mind of young England, we 
should certainly name the eloquent Hazlitt." — Taifs Magazine. 

" Each Essay is a pure gathering of the author's own mind, and not filched 
from the world of books, in which thieving is so common, and all strike out 
some bold and original thinking, and give some vigorous truths in stern and 
earnest language. They are written with infinite spirit and thought. There 
are abundance of beauties to delight all lovers of nervous English prose, let 
them be ever so fastidious." — JSfew Monthly Magazine. 

" He is at home in the closet, in the fresh fields, in the studies." — Liter 
ary Gazette. 

' " Choice reading indeed ! It is not often that we meet with a book so 
attractive. We are not sure but that we should have read all the morning 
in this book, had not the entrance of certain very ti'oublesome characters, 
called compositors, broken our enjoyment with the question — ' Any more 
copy, sir ?' As long as Wiley &, Putnam will publish such books, the pub- 
lic need not buy the half legible trash of the day, for the sake of getting 
cheap books." — American Traveller. 

" These Essays comprise many of the best things that Hazlitt ever said, 
and this is high praise ; enough, at least, to commend the book to all who 
take delight in such reading as the Essays of Elia, or Christopher JYorth, 
with wliom he is a kindred spirit, a class which it is a happiness to believe 
is by no means inconsiderable in point of numbers. There is something 
pariicularlv fascinating about these dissertations. Their easy, intimate 
glyle wins the reader into a true feeling of sympathy and companionship 
with the writer."— .r. Y Post. 

VTI. 

HEADLONG HAUL AND NIGHTMARE ABBEV, 

Headlong Hall and Nigttt]m.*re Abbey, by Thomas Lov Peacack 
i'ncc 3 7 1 cents. 

"This is a witty, amusing book." — JV. F. Tribune. 



WILEY & PUTNAM'S A.DVLRTISEMENT. 



" The seventh is a satirical performance, reflecting the spirit and form ol 
the age with great >kill and force, entitled Headlong Hail, with a sequel. 
Nightmare Abbey. It has points of great excellence and attraction, and 13 
imbued with a spiri: of humor which well sets off the author's opinions. 
If the reader of the work is not a better man for its lessor..?, it will be his 
cwn fault." — ¥". F Evangelist. 

'' These are tales which may be read over a dozen times and will bo as 
fi^sli at the last as at the first perusal. New points of vit, liumor, and sar- 
'iasm are always appearing." — London JYews. 

" Were we to be asked our private opinion as to who is the wittiest writer 
in England, we should say the author of Headlong Hall. Perhaps no man 
has seen the follies of his day vv^ith a clearer and juster eye than the present 
author; he investigates, and then reasons, and by placing the fact in its 
simplest, places it also in its miost ridiculous forms. He calls things by 
their right names ; and in this age of high sounding words and happy 
epithets, this little process has a most curious efiect." — Lond. Lit. Gaz. 

mil. 

THE FRENCH IN ALGIERS. 

I. The Soldiers of the Foreign Legion. II. The Prisoners of Abd-el-Kader. 
Translated from the German and French by Lady Duff GoRDOiV. Price 
37| cents. 

' There is something refreshing in reading of the men of instinct, such 
as the Bedouins." — j\''ew York Tribune. 

" Thi-s work is in two parts — the first by a Lieutenant in the Oldenberg 
service — the second by a Lieutenant in the French navy ; but both parts are 
of a most interesting character ; and are worthy of the place which they hold 
in the ' Library of Choice Reading.' The v/ork is written in an unpre- 
tending style, and contains a great deal of curious and instructive matter, 
which to us at least is entirely new." — American Citizen. 

" The main interest of his story centres upon Abd-el-Kader ; and it is 
curious to see how little this Frenchman's portrait from life of the famous 
Emir corresponds with the representations of him given by the European 
journals. According to the latter Abd-el-Kader is a formidable chieftain, 
mj:Tshalling under his banner numerous and warlike tribes, fired with the 
most determined spirit of fanaticism, setting at defiance the military power 
of France, and meditating even the expulsion of the Moorish Emperor from 
his throne. Monsieur France, on the contrary, brings him before us a mers 
free-b-ooting chief of a few hundreds, rich in a solitary cannon so badly 
mounted as to be almost useless, and with great difficulty keeping his vaga- 
bonds together by indiscriniinate plunder. The Abd-el-Kader of the news- 
papers is quite a romantic hero ; but the Abd-el-Kader of this book is a very 
different personage." — JVeiv York Commercial Jldvertiser. 

" A book made up from the actual experience of a soldier and sailor- 
presenting a very vivid account of the French dominion in Africa. One liali 
IS the contribution of a Ge man soldier o^ fortune, who, finding himself out 



WILEY & PU TNAM'S ADVERTISEMENT 



of employment in Spain, con.es over to encounter the deserts and Kabyles 
and Abd-el-Kader in the Foreign Legion. His incidents, jottings down, and 
reflections smell of the camp. The anecdotes of the expeditions and skir- 
mishes throw a new light on our contemporary meagre newspaper bulletins 
headed Algeria. We are quietly put in possession of the whole system of 
strategy— and may confidently predict something more enduring in the 
French struggle witii the native tribes than in our own with the Seminoles. 
The second portion of the book gives the experience of M. De France, an office? 
of the navy, who was one day noosed on the sea-board, and carried to Abd- 
el-Kader. He gives an interesting account of the great chief and his camp. 
Lady DufF Gordon, the accomplished translator aAd editor of this volume, is, 
we understand, the daughter of Sarah Austen, so well known tu ail Englisn 
readers of German Literature." — Mew York Morning JYeios. 

" This No. (the Sth) of the ' Library of Choice Reading,' is an actual 
record of the observations of two highly intelligent young men upon some 
very interesting scenes in which they were themselves sharers. The work 
contains much valuable information, and is written throughout in a style 
that cannot fail to attract and interest all classes of readers." — ilhany Re- 
ligious Spectator. 



X. 
THE GESTA ROMANORUM. 

Evenings with tLe Old Story Tellers : Select Moral Tales from the Gesta 
Romanorum Price 37^ cents. 

CojvTEWTs: — The Ungrateful Man; Jovinian and the Proud Emperor ; 
The King and the Glutton ; Guido, the perfect servant ; The Knight and the 
King of Hungary ; The Three Black Crows : The Three Caskets ; The 
Angel and the Hermit ; Fulgentius and the Wicked Steward ; The Wicked 
Priest ; The Emperor's Daughter ; The Emperor Leo and the Three Images ; 
The Lay of the Little Bird ; The Burdens of this Life ; ' The Suggestions ol 
the Evil One ; Cotonolapes, th'e Magician ; The Garden of Aloaddin ; Sir 
Guido, the Crusader; The Knight and the Necromancer; The Clerk and 
tlie Image; The Demon Knighf of the Vandal Camp; The Seductions of 
the Evil One ; The Three Maxims ; The Trials of Eustace; Queen Semi- 
ramis; Celestinus and the Miller's Horse; The Emperor Conrad and the 
Count's Son ; The Knight and the Three Questions ; Jonathan and the 
Three Talismen. 

'* Evenings with the Old Story Tellers vvixl, we anticipate, be a very po- 
pular volume. There is about these Tale a quiet humor, a quaintness and 
terseness or style, which, apart from the sage lessons they convey, wil] 
strongly recommend them." — English ChurcKuiau. 

'- We have derived a great deal of curious information from the perusal 
of this little work— upon which great care and labor have evidently been 
bsstowed, and we promise that the reader will find himself amply reward- 
ivl," — Western Lum'nary. 






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